


The Heiress and the Thief

by Fuhadeza



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/F, Regency Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-10-13 01:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 58,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17478815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuhadeza/pseuds/Fuhadeza
Summary: When Adora is taken in by Lady Brightmoon, she leaves her boarding school—and her best friend—behind. She manages to avoid regretting it right up until the day she sees Catra again...It's the She-Ra regency romance AU you never knew you wanted! There will be balls. There will be card games! There will be duels and burglaries and maybe kidnapping! Come join me as I find out how all those things fit together!(Since a couple of people have asked: this fic is focused on catradora, but I try to present adora's relationships with both catra and glimmer as extremely important & extremely different. ymmv as to whether you interpret the latter as romantic. whether or not you do, they are both endgame. no ship angst here. :D)





	1. Catra—September 1803

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I gave in. I'm doing it.
> 
> I have read precisely one regency romance in my life. (And that was Garth Nix's Newt's Emerald, which isn't exactly a standard example of the genre.) I will therefore be Winging It. But don't worry! I used to live in London, and the other day I looked up what a quadrille was. It'll be /fine/.
> 
> As you can see from the tags, we will be multishipping. More on that as the fic develops, but I want to clarify there's not gonna be any angst or conflict or jealousy or whatnot. I have no time for love triangles. My hope is that this will be enjoyable for fans of both ships. :)
> 
> And finally, I'm probably going to be pretty busy in the coming months, not to mention I have another fic to finish, so I'm not sure how quickly I can update this. But I had so much fun writing the first chapter I thought I would put it up as a little teaser. (Last time I did this I never wrote anything beyond chapter one. Fingers crossed, eh?)

_In which birthdays are considered, friends introduced, and beds shared_

Catra did not know how old she was.

_‘How old are you?’_

Those had been the first words Miss Weaver ever spoke to her. Catra had been confused. It wasn’t a question anyone had asked before, and she had only a shaky grasp of the concept of age.

Miss Weaver had sighed in disappointment. _‘You don’t know when you were born?’_

It was a curious thing. Catra could not say how old she was, but she knew with absolute certainty the date of her birth, the day and the month seared into her mind in lines as crystal-clear as the year was fuzzy.

(She did not tell Miss Weaver. In the school’s official records her date of birth was, by convention, listed as the first of January.)

Consequently, Catra did not know if she was four or five or six years old when the new girl came to school. All she knew was that it was precisely thirty-three days before her birthday.

‘Girls, this is Adora.’ Miss Weaver sounded uncharacteristically chipper that day, as if it was _her_ birthday. ‘She’ll be living with us from now on.’

It was morning. By the line of shadow on the dormitory wall, Catra knew she should have had at least another fifteen minutes of sleep before the ear-splitting clang of the morning bell. (Catra _hated_ mornings. That line of shadow and the sleep it represented was, in her mind, a more absolute rule than any of Miss Weaver’s commandments.) She opened bleary eyes, therefore, determined to dislike on sight whatever poor young thing had robbed her of her precious sleep.

Adora was taller than Catra—another mark against her—and when she smiled shyly she was revealed to have a gap in her upper front teeth, and that really was too much. _All_ the other girls had lost a tooth thus far—and received a ha’penny for their trouble—except Catra. ‘She’s not sleeping in _my_ bed,’ Catra announced, cutting through the half-hearted chorus of hellos. ‘She’s too’—and here her imagination failed her, because what might disqualify someone from a bed?—‘too _blonde_ ,’ she finished, lamely, Adora’s hair being the only feature that had thus far avoided her ire.

Miss Weaver frowned. ‘Catra, your bed is the only one with a free bunk. Adora will take the spare and I’ll hear no more about it.’ She beamed down at the new girl again. The look she then directed at Catra was entirely opposite in quality. ‘Is that clear?’

Catra muttered something that might have been agreement.

‘Good. Settle her in, then, and I expect to see you all on time for breakfast.’

In Miss Weaver’s absence, Adora looked even more lost. It was getting on Catra’s nerves. Adora was _tall_ and that meant she was _old_ and _old people_ weren’t supposed to look lost. ‘What’re you looking at?’

Adora jumped. ‘Um,’ she said. ‘Your ears?’

Behind Adora’s back, two of the older girls shared a knowing look. ‘Never been to London before?’ one of them said, the kindness in her tone spoiled by the smug superiority on her face. ‘Just wait. Our little Catra’s nothing. _I_ hear there’s a lizard boy in the boy’s school.’

Catra bared her teeth. ‘ _You’re_ nothing.’

‘I’ll just—I’ll just take the top bunk, okay?’ Adora said, before something could become of the spat.

‘Can’t.’ Catra hopped out of bed and drew herself up. Her nightshirt—a hand-me-down Miss Weaver had procured from who knew where—nearly reached the floor. ‘That one’s mine.’

To her credit, Adora didn’t blink twice when she saw Catra’s tail. ‘But you’re in the…’ she gestured at the bottom bunk.

‘Also mine. I move.’

‘So… I can just have the one you’re not in?’

‘Can’t. It’s mine.’

‘But Miss Weaver said…’

Catra shrugged. ‘Can’t.’

Adora looked so utterly perplexed it almost made Catra feel sorry for her. She was enjoying herself too much, though—Catra was small and scrawny, and if the new girl didn’t know that height was _everything_ , Catra wasn’t about to tell her.

Whatever route Adora might have found out of this quandary, she was interrupted by the bell, and a scant minute later the two of them found themselves facing Miss Weaver in the breakfast room, Catra still in her nightshirt, Adora in the mildly more appropriate clothes she’d arrived in, but a far cry from the new garments Miss Weaver must have given her, which she still held, neatly folded, against her chest.

‘Catra,’ Miss Weaver snapped. ‘How many times is that this week?’

‘Four.’

‘Four,’ Miss Weaver repeated. ‘And it is _Friday_. Shall we start counting the days you _do_ follow the rules? That would make it easier. In any event, you may consider your free time rescinded for the coming week.’ Then she glanced at Adora. ‘If you eat quickly, my dear, you ought to have time to run back and get changed before your first lesson.’

‘Um, Miss Weaver?’ Adora said.

‘Yes?’

‘Catra didn’t—I mean—she wouldn’t let me pick a bunk…’

Catra stared at Adora in horror. Did she know _nothing_ about how school worked?

Miss Weaver rotated her head back to Catra. It made her look like a bird. ‘I am feeling generous, Catra. I will tell you who shall get which bunk, and you shall respect my decision, and if you feel like disagreeing, you may volunteer for kitchen duty until Christmas. Yes?’

Catra nodded. Miss Weaver told them how it was going to be.

After that it was only a matter of time before Adora got what was coming to her. In Miss Weaver’s School for Girls, one did not settle one’s differences by involving _Miss Weaver_. The other girls bided their time through the morning classes, but come the lunch break a pair of them cornered Adora in a side corridor.

‘Heard you broke the rules today.’

Adora hadn’t even noticed them. ‘W-what? It was only a—Miss Weaver said it was all right…’

The taller of the two laughed. ‘Not what I meant. You think you could just go and tell on our little Catra here?’

Adora backed up a step and suddenly something was wrong. Catra was supposed to be enjoying this. But instead there was a memory bubbling up, the memory of standing up to Adora and _succeeding_. It had felt good in a way she wasn’t used to, but now these other girls were threatening to take that victory away from her, make it something common. _Only I get to tell Adora what’s what._

And besides, she wasn’t _little_.

Catra was charging at them before the thought had even properly taken root. She dived just before she hit, taking one of them around the knees, and by sheer surprise the girl went down, her windmilling arms putting her friend off balance just enough for Catra to help her along with a leg hooked around her feet.

Catra discovered two things that day. The first was that she quite enjoyed brawling. The second was that her size and speed were not—yet—sufficient to overcome greater strength, whether that be strength of muscle or of numbers or, as in this case, both.

‘ _Hey_ ,’ someone said about twenty seconds in, by which time Catra had been thoroughly pinned down, her tail trapped uncomfortably beneath her back. ‘ _Leave her alone_.’

‘What?’ The girl holding Catra’s arms down sounded confused. ‘Why are you—you’re not supposed to be on her side.’

‘I said, _leave her alone_.’

Adora was two years younger and an inch shorter than either of the other two girls. Catra braced herself for the fight that would surely follow.

‘Whatever.’ The pressure on Catra’s chest receded. ‘You’re weird. We were just trying to _help_.’

This last was apparently directed at Catra. She stood up, dusted herself off, and did her best not to look like she was hiding behind Adora.

The other girl snorted. ‘Just don’t come crying to us next time she tells on you.’

Then they were walking away, and Adora and Catra were left alone, staring at each other in some confusion.

Catra said, ‘It’s my birthday in thirty-three days. On the twenty-eighth of October.’ She said this very carefully, like someone who was not entirely certain of her numbers yet. ‘Don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.’

Adora nodded seriously. ‘I won’t. Mine’s in January.’

Catra squinted at her. ‘Is it _really_?’

‘Yes! The nineteenth.’

Catra mulled that over. ‘Okay,’ she said eventually. ‘I guess that means we can be friends.’

*

Years later they would argue about the details of that first night of friendship, whether it had been Adora who’d curled up next to Catra or vice versa. The only thing they could agree on was that it had been the bottom bunk, but that fact was not much use: neither could remember—nor much cared—what order Miss Weaver had tried to impose on them.

That first night and most every night thereafter, it was not _Adora’s bed_ or _Catra’s bed_ : it was simply _their_ bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adora and Catra not being able to remember which bed is whose is one of my favourite minor headcanons. :D
> 
> Very important: this version of London has cat people. (And lizard people, and scorpion people, and...)


	2. Adora—January 1817

_In which Adora, Glimmer, and Bow attempt debauchery; with the unexpected appearance of a spectre from Adora’s past_

Adora had been living in the townhouse at number twenty-three Grosvenor Square for the better part of two years before it began to feel like her home.

It was not a done thing, to take in a ward from so lowly a place as Miss Weaver’s School for Girls—but Her Grace the Duchess of Brightmoon was far too august a personage for anyone to gainsay her and after a few weeks even the gossip had died down. (As far as Adora knew, she was not the Duchess’ long-lost daughter, nor did Her Grace have any lifelong friends, siblings, or other close relations who had met a tragically early end and might have left behind a child. As far as Adora knew, in fact, there was absolutely nothing special about her.)

What had passed for etiquette lessons at Miss Weaver's had proved ill preparation for her new life, and that first year had been spent filling in the gaps in her education. She’d learnt how to refer to people properly—always “Her Grace”, never “Lady Brightmoon”, unless of course they were at home, in which case Angella—and how to navigate the byzantine conventions of London society. She’d learnt how to dance the waltz and the quadrille, and more importantly she’d learnt when and with who each was appropriate. There were a dozen tiny rules that everyone around her had grown up breathing and which she’d struggled to internalise, but at the end of that first year, she was reasonably sure she was committing no more than one _faux pas_ per week.

In amongst the strictures, though, she came to understand that every rule began to break down when it came into contact with actual people.

(‘Please just use my name,’ Glimmer had said, laughing, when Adora tried to call her a marchioness for the first time. ‘ _Lady Glimmer_ sounds more glamorous, anyway.’

Adora herself was _Lady Adora_ only when someone was trying to curry favour. That suited her just fine.)

‘Come _on_ ,’ Glimmer said, stopping for the third time in as many minutes while Adora caught up. ‘We’re going to be late.’

‘You have an appointment?’

‘Well, _no_ , but the sooner we get there, the sooner we can get back home and I can give you your present!’

Adora rolled her eyes and quickened her pace. It all seemed a little backwards, to be out accompanying Glimmer as she picked up what was, after all, a birthday present for _Adora_ , but she wasn’t about to deny her companion the pleasure. It was, besides, one of the rare beautiful days of London’s winter, all bright and clear, and the walk was doing her good. Glimmer was more willing to convey herself on foot than most ladies of her station, but to Adora—who’d spent the latter days of her education exploring as much of London as she could—it was never enough.

‘Here we are,’ Glimmer announced, stopping on the corner of Savile Row. Adora didn’t care about fashion quite as much as Glimmer did, but she paid enough attention to know the shopfront wasn’t that of Glimmer’s usual _modiste_. The name was Italian, the display in the window less garish than some. Combined with the dimness within, the overall effect was of someone confident their customers would come to them and who therefore saw no need to stand out.

‘Lady Glimmer!’ The proprietor was a man in his fifties, attired in a suit as sublimely subdued as his shop. ‘Is something wrong? I was planning on having the…’ His eyes flicked to Adora, alighting on the sword belted at her waist. ‘… _item_ delivered to you later this afternoon.’

‘I decided I couldn’t wait,’ Glimmer said cheerfully. ‘Don’t give me that look, it’s only a ten minute walk. Would you mind entertaining yourself for a minute, Adora? And no peeking!’

‘Does it really matter if I see it now or in half an hour?’

‘Yes!’ Glimmer called over her shoulder, and then the two of them had disappeared into the backroom.

 _A minute_ turned into _ten minutes_ , but Adora found she didn’t mind. The more she looked, the more curious she became. The shop had only a few pieces on display, but on closer inspection each revealed subtle peculiarities: a woman’s jacket with a series of straps on the inside, something like a riding dress adorned with an ornate sword-belt. It was not entirely unheard of for there to be some overlap between men’s and women’s fashion, of course—Adora herself wore masculine clothing much of the time, the better to access her sword—but this was different in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

‘Ready?’

Adora started. She hadn’t even noticed Glimmer come up behind her. ‘If you are.’

The walk back took a little longer on account of the rather large dress box weighing Glimmer down. (Adora offered to carry it for her three times. Glimmer wouldn’t have any of it.)

‘Open it,’ Glimmer said once they were safely home and retired to Adora’s bedchamber. She was practically bouncing with excitement.

Adora did as she was told. Truthfully, she could only muster so much excitement—Glimmer had given her a dress the year before, too, and she’d liked it well enough, but she’d never be the sort of person who wanted a wardrobe full of ballgowns when one or two would do.

Then she started paying attention.

The dress was blood-red. That was the first thing she noticed. Then the reason for the size of the box became clear—there was a set of underskirts, as well, and a corset, only it didn’t quite look like the corsets she was used to. All in all, it was nothing like the Parisian fashions Glimmer and her mother normally favoured.

‘It’s a duelling dress!’ Glimmer said, as if unable to wait for Adora to arrive at this conclusion. ‘See, the corset is more flexible, won’t do as much for your bosom but _way_ better mobility, and then the underskirts are split, and the outermost skirt detaches… And you can wear a sword-belt over it, or you can even strap your sword _underneath_ your skirt—’ Glimmer stopped, took a deep breath. ‘What I mean is, I know you don’t like balls that much, but I thought maybe if you had a dress that was a bit more like what you usually wear… Do you like it?’

Overlap in fashions aside, the highest-class events were still governed by strict dress-codes. For the Duchess of Brightmoon’s ward to wear a suit to a ball would have been quite out of the question. Glimmer—for all that she was an accomplished swordswoman herself and, if anything, was quicker to take offence—didn’t mind the restrictions, but Adora always felt naked without her sword. It wasn’t just a sword; it was a reminder.

‘I love it,’ she said, blinking through the sudden urge to cry. ‘I really, really do…’

‘Adora? Are you all right?’ Glimmer pushed the dress box away from them, the better to sidle up beside Adora on the bed and put an arm gently around her shoulders.

‘I’m fine,’ Adora said, feeling herself start to blush. ‘Sorry. It’s just… Can I be honest?’

‘Of course.’

‘I thought it was going to be another dress. You know, a normal one, like last year. And that would have been nice, but it wouldn’t have been… special. No one’s…’ Adora paused. ‘Hardly anyone has ever given me something _special_ for my birthday. It feels good that you know me well enough to know what I’d like. Does that make sense?’

Glimmer looked mildly affronted. ‘Of course it does! Last year I didn’t really know you well enough to do something special. That’s why I was so excited this year.’

Adora grinned at her. ‘I’ve never heard of a duelling dress before. Where did you even find it?’

‘Italy! They’re all the rage there. I read about it a few months ago. Did you know, Italian women apparently duel at the drop of a hat?’

‘Understandable. Italian hats are _very_ expensive.’

Glimmer snorted in an entirely unladylike fashion. ‘Anyway, the _other_ part of your present is that you don’t have to wear it tonight.’

Adora blinked. ‘What?’

‘Well, I know you hate parties—’

‘I don’t hate parties, I just hate—’

‘When they’re all about you, I know.’ Glimmer flashed her a smile. ‘So I convinced Mother we might skip the whole to-do this year and do something a little more private tonight. Just you, me, and Bow. She has her own plans for you tomorrow, I think, but I’m pretty sure they don’t involve anything more strenuous than a luncheon.’

‘So what did you have in mind?’

‘Well, Bow and I were talking, and… how would you feel about a night of depraved debauchery?’

*

‘I just want to make it absolutely clear,’ Bow said, ‘that I never used the words “depraved debauchery”. That was all Glimmer.’

Glimmer stuck her tongue out at him. ‘It’s what you _meant_.’

‘I did not. I just meant somewhere that’s not full of, you know…’

‘Aristocrats?’ Adora supplied.

‘Exactly!’ He grinned at her. ‘See, Adora understands.’

Bow, too, was one of Her Grace’s wards, but in his case the situation was entirely routine: his parents were minor nobility somewhere in the West Country, a distant relation of the duchess, and it was perfectly understandable they would wish their son to be raised in the capital.

_(‘And yet some people are starting to whisper I have a habit of collecting strays,’ the Duchess of Brightmoon had said, in a faintly disapproving tone, when she’d explained as much to Adora. ‘As if you were cats or dogs.’)_

The club Glimmer led them to was not, in the end, entirely empty of aristocrats. It was, however, down a flight of steps, behind an unmarked door, and dimly lit, therefore ticking all the boxes an otherwise straight-laced young woman might want to tick to consider an evening adventurous. Adora had no doubt that the residents of an _actual_ gambling den would sneer at the persons of quality who formed, by her judgement, a decent third of the clientele, and who mingled with obvious pride at their courage in being there—but that wasn’t the point. The point was to have fun, and she was having fun. The card games were real enough, as high stakes as those played in more genteel venues but not devoid of energy as those inevitably were, and though they did not play themselves—three being an awkward number for either joining an existing party or forming their own—Adora found herself caught up in the rise and fall of the fortunes of those around her.

What the night lacked in gambling it made up for in those two other vices, alcohol and dancing. Glimmer insisted on gin. It wasn’t a spirit either Glimmer or Bow had tried before, and Adora had to fight back laughter at the speed with which it had an effect. No sooner had Glimmer slammed her glass down than she pulled Adora to her feet, dragging her into the adjoining room, where musicians were playing something entirely unsuited to the waltz Glimmer attempted to lead her through. Adora gave her a dozen steps before taking charge, turning the waltz into a jig, and if it was not quite the _correct_ jig, well, no one else seemed to care.

Adora remembered other nights in another life. She remembered furtive expeditions in the middle of the night, the first time she tasted gin—and other dance floors, another pair of arms around her waist.

She shook her head lightly, clearing the memories from her mind. There was a break in the music. Adora rested her chin on top of Glimmer’s head. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

‘You’re welcome,’ Glimmer replied, her voice muffled against Adora’s chest. ‘Happy birthday.’

In nearly two years of life as someone’s ward—or at least, as Angella Brightmoon’s ward—Adora had come to realise that it was largely indistinguishable from life as someone’s child. In one very important respect, however, it was different.

Being Her Grace’s ward did not, after all, make her Glimmer’s sister.

*

The past was not quite done with her that night.

‘Adora?’

They were on the steps, making ready to leave. She glanced up at the person who’d addressed her. He was exiting a hackney carriage, dressed in the same toned-down elegance that the three of them had adopted for their outing—the sort of outfit that implied wealth pretending to be otherwise.

It took her a moment to recognise him. He’d been several years younger when they’d last seen each other. ‘Kyle?’ Her heart was suddenly pounding, but the hackney carriage had disgorged no other passengers and was already moving off. ‘I thought you—I mean—’ But what could she say? That she was surprised he could afford the clothes he wore?

‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said quietly. ‘I’d heard the Duchess had taken you in.’

‘Yes,’ she managed. ‘And—you’re doing well?’

He shrugged, a little self-consciously. ‘I am.’

‘What about—’ The name died on her lips.

Kyle looked her up and down, taking in the curious glances Bow and Glimmer were (quite unsubtly) throwing his way. ‘I won’t tell her I saw you,’ he said, then executed a slightly stiff bow. ‘Good evening, Adora. Lord Bow. Lady Glimmer.’

Then he was gone, sweeping past them down the stairs.

‘Someone I knew from my school days,’ Adora said in response to her friends’ silent queries. ‘I was just surprised to see him here, that’s all.’

The encounter, fleeting though it had been, followed her all the way home and into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Kyle" is possibly the least Regency name ever, but what can you do?
> 
> So! A little bit of setting up the world, a little bit of hinting at backstory... As you can see, my version of London is one in which things like "women wearing suits and carrying swords" are just scandalous enough to be fun without being depressing. :D Hooray for fiction!


	3. Adora—February 1817

_In which a weekly vigil is adopted, unsuccessfully; and a game of whist is played, successfully_

‘I trust you had an enjoyable time,’ the Duchess of Brightmoon said the next day over the remains of a light luncheon. ‘With Bow and Glimmer.’

‘I did,’ Adora said. It was just the two of them, seated at a table in one of London’s most exclusive clubs. ‘Thank you for agreeing to it.’

‘Well.’ Angella raised an eyebrow. ‘I remember being your age. A little excitement is only necessary.’

Adora took a sip of her tea. That was one of the things she’d had to learn first—how to handle a porcelain tea-cup properly. It had been infuriating. Now it came naturally. ‘In moderation,’ she said.

‘I see you have guessed the manner of my advance,’ Angella said, the military idiom throwing Adora for a moment. It was easy to forget the Duchess of Brightmoon had once led troops on the battlefield. ‘There is nothing wrong with those sorts of establishments. But there is a danger, if one begins to desire… _more_ excitement.’ She raised one slender finger. ‘I don’t say this as a slight on your character, my dear. But if I were to give Glimmer the same warning, I’d be finding her in dockside dives before the week was out.’

‘Glimmer can be headstrong,’ Adora said diplomatically.

Angella smiled faintly. ‘And Bow, of course, would agree with me enthusiastically, only to forget every word the moment Glimmer got her hooks into him.’

‘Headstrong and persuasive,’ Adora amended.

‘But I trust you, Adora. I think you can keep a level head. Will you do me this favour? Keep them out of any—shall we say, _serious_ trouble?’

Adora swallowed. ‘Of course, Your Grace.’

‘And one more thing.’ Angella’s face hardened. ‘The Frightley Set.’ She met Adora’s eyes over the rim of her teacup. ‘If you ever find yourself involved with them—that is how you will know you have gone too far.’

*

The Duchess’ warning only delayed the inevitable.

Two weeks later, Adora found Bow sitting in one of the parlours, reading. He looked up when she came in, angling the cover of the book away from her.

Adora grinned. ‘Pirates again?’

Bow relaxed. ‘I thought you were Angella. She’s been trying to get me to read Catullus.’

‘What’s wrong with Catullus?’ Adora waggled her eyebrows. ‘Saucier than any of your pirate adventures, I bet.’

Bow coloured and cleared his throat. ‘Did you need me for something?’

‘Yes, actually. Do you remember the address of the club we went to? I think I left my gloves there.’ She delivered this with such a studied casualness it was a miracle Bow didn’t see right through her. ‘They’ve been missing for weeks. That’s the last place I can think to look, but I wasn’t paying that much attention at the time…’

‘Sure,’ Bow said, reaching for a scrap of paper and a pen. ‘But I think I remember you having them when we left.’

‘Well, maybe,’ Adora said quickly. ‘It’s worth checking just in case.’

‘Here,’ Bow said, handing her the paper, address glistening in his neat, still-wet handwriting. ‘Want me to come with you?’

‘Er—I was just planning on sending a note.’ She’d planned no such thing, of course, but nor did she want company. ‘No point making the trip if they’re not there.’

‘Well, good luck.’

She was halfway to the door when something made her stop and turn around again. ‘Bow?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Have you heard of the Frightley Set?’

Bow looked up, frowning. ‘The Earl of Frightley, you mean?’

‘I guess so.’

‘I think he’s one of those nobles who collects people. Rebellious sorts, you know, makes him look a bit dashing. Glimmer would know more. She considers Debrett’s a bit of light bed-time reading.’

Adora laughed. She’d spent enough evenings in Glimmer’s bedchamber to be intimately familiar with that fact. ‘Tell me about it.’

Bow was still looking at her, his expression serious. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘What? Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’

He shrugged. ‘Okay. But you know you can always talk to me, right? About whatever?’

‘I know.’ Adora put on a reassuring smile. ‘It was just something Angella mentioned. I was curious, that’s all.’

‘That’s good,’ Bow said, turning back to his reading. ‘Let me know if you plan on doing anything rebellious, though. That’s Glimmer’s job. Someone would have to tell her to be responsible for a change.’

*

Two hours later Adora was sneaking out of the townhouse.

It was not particularly difficult. The house had at least three back doors, not to mention a bevy of windows more than large and low enough to safely exit through, and Adora had plenty of experience in escaping Miss Weaver’s School for Girls, an institution generally much more concerned with keeping its residents within its walls than was the Duchess of Brightmoon.

She hailed a hackney carriage two streets away and gave the driver the address. It was a longer trip than she recalled, but some half hour after departing Grosvenor Square she found herself once again descending the stairs on which she’d last seen Kyle.

Adora wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting. If it was to enter the club and spot him again immediately, she was to be disappointed. In a way it had been a silly thought. So he had been here once—why should that mean he would return? There were half a dozen clubs just like it within walking distance, she was sure. The only thing that made this one special was that one chance encounter. And yet part of her had been so certain that she would walk in and see them at a table, all four of them, Kyle and Lonnie and Rogelio and—

She spent two hours in a corner of the room, sipping at her drink, turning down the occasional request from a would-be dance partner or a party of card-players needing someone to make up their numbers. Then she left.

It wasn’t _really_ rebelliousness, she reasoned. Rebelliousness could hardly be routine, and yet so her visits to the club became, as regular as clockwork. Every Sunday night she would descend the stairs, sit at her table in the corner, and watch. By the third such visit it was no longer about the expectation of success. Over a month had passed since her birthday and London made for a large haystack in which to lose a needle.

The habit was comforting all the same. She’d turned her back on her past. A clean break, she’d thought; less clean, in the end, than she’d hoped. The club was her solution. She could tell herself she was making an effort where she had not been before.

*

‘Why are you so sleepy?’ Glimmer said one Monday morning. ‘Does coffee work on you backwards?’

They were in a café, a fashionable place in the Viennese style—one chose one’s coffee from a palette of colours, from darkest brown to off-white—and Adora had just stifled her third yawn in as many minutes.

‘I haven’t been sleeping well,’ Adora lied.

‘Well, have another cup.’ Glimmer signalled for a waiter. ‘You better come with me tonight.’

‘Tonight? What’s tonight?’

Glimmer stared at her. ‘The Plumeria ball.’

‘Oh. Of course.’

‘Don’t tell me you forgot.’

‘I didn’t _forget_. I just thought it was next week.’

Glimmer frowned. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Just tired.’

‘Well, if you can’t sleep, you can always come see me. Better to be awake together, right?’

‘I wouldn’t want to keep you up.’

Glimmer waved a hand dismissively. ‘Tell you what. Come to this ball with me, then we’ll retire together. If the dancing isn’t enough to tire you out, I’ll bore you to sleep.’

Adora smiled. ‘You could never bore me to sleep.’

*

It was a welcome distraction, in the end.

Adora wore her duelling dress. It was the first real occasion she’d had to put it on—admiring herself in the mirror aside. It felt good. The colour suited her, the fit was perfect, and most importantly of all, it felt like _her_. Wearing it she felt like she could be both Adora the swordswoman and Adora the duchess’ ward.

The Countess of Plumeria greeted them herself.

‘Glimmer!’ she said, bending down for a careful embrace—Glimmer’s dress, a confection in blues and purples like someone’s fantastic idea of the night sky, was more than a little delicate. ‘You look wonderful!’

Glimmer beamed. ‘Thank you, Perfuma. A proper ball! It’s been too long.’

‘Can I convince you to dance the first quadrille with me?’

‘The second? I’m afraid I promised Adora.’

‘Did you?’ Adora said, after they were safely inside, the buzz of the crowd filling the ball-room in between dances.

Glimmer smiled slightly. ‘I dragged you out here half-asleep. I’m not about to leave you high and dry for the first dance!’

Adora made to say she was not so tired, after all, then stifled a yawn halfway through. It was remarkable, she thought idly, what one truncated night of sleep a week could do to a person.

Even tired, the dance was fun. There was something _public_ about the quadrille that Adora quite enjoyed. Four couples together made for an entirely different prospect to the waltz and the intimacy it implied. She danced the first with Glimmer, the second and third with a polite young nobleman whose name she probably should have remembered, the fourth with Perfuma, and by the fifth the room spun around her in not entirely pleasant circles.

‘I think I need a break.’

‘Do you want to leave?’ Glimmer said.

‘No, it’s all right.’ Adora could tell Glimmer meant the offer seriously, just as she could tell the other girl would rather stay a while longer. ‘I’ll just retire to the card-room. Enjoy yourself, okay?’

‘I will,’ Glimmer said, gratefully. ‘Come find me if you get bored!’

The fundamental point of a ball was dancing. That meant the card-room was always a sedate affair: a place for older attendees to catch their breath over a game of whist or a glass of brandy. The young people, of course, were expected to dance through night and into morning, but no one would begrudge her a moment’s respite.

Adora stepped into the card-room, cast her gaze around for an empty table, and froze.

After weeks of build-up, she wasn’t ready for Catra to simply _be_ there, sitting at a table with an older couple, shuffling a pack of cards, an empty chair across from her. She was staring, but she couldn’t help it. Catra wore a pure white shirt, the sleeves puffed out, silver cufflinks shining at her wrists. There was a burgundy coat draped insouciantly over her chair-back. The hilt of a sword poked up over the table’s edge. She looked dashing and beautiful and dangerous, like a character in one of Bow’s novels or a revolutionary on her way to storm the Bastille. The other occupants of the table were positively drab by way of comparison.

‘Madam Ambassador!’ Catra’s voice cut across the room. With a jolt, Adora realised Catra had seen her, was staring right back, her mismatched eyes as unsettling as they were familiar. ‘Care for another wager? Double or nothing?’ Her voice was different. Lower, somehow, huskier, more confident. ‘One more game, and this time I play with an unfamiliar partner. Do you play whist?’

It took Adora a moment to realise the question was directed at her. Of course she played whist—Catra ought to know as much. ‘Yes,’ she said, slowly, willing her mind to catch up.

‘There we go,’ Catra said, looking at the woman to her left. ‘How about it? Me and this sweet young thing against you and your husband.’

‘It seems hardly fair,’ the woman replied in accented English. ‘If you are so willing to part with your money, however…’

Catra’s eyes flashed. ‘Splendid. Have a seat,’ she said to Adora. ‘Don’t look so frightened. You know the Spanish Ambassador? Well, now you do.’

Adora sat automatically. Something was off. Catra was acting like—like— _like me_ , she thought. _Like someone who has been taught how to act in society, but wasn’t born to it._ Catra’s façade was so aggressively unlike her true self, her refusal to recognise Adora so total, that for one brief moment Adora seriously questioned whether it truly was Catra.

But then there were the things she could not hide. The tightness around her lips as she smiled at Adora. The cold amusement in her eyes, gone the moment she turned to parry some conversational gambit.

‘Short whist,’ Catra said, dealing. ‘No honours.’

Adora picked up her cards, fanned them out, rearranged them by suit. It felt like being in a dream.

Catra turned the last card face-up—the queen of hearts. ‘How fitting,’ she said, taking the card into her hand.

Adora scanned her hand, counting the hearts. Two low trumps and the jack. To her right the Ambassador led the first trick. For some reason Adora’s mouth was dry. She looked up.

Catra’s ears were twitching. She slouched back in her chair, the picture of easy boredom, a card-player’s professionally neutral expression on her face. A moment later Adora felt the touch of Catra’s tail, sliding beneath her skirts and running gently up her calf, twitching to a familiar rhythm.  She summoned all her composure to keep any reaction off her face.

(She’d always worn trousers, before. Catra’s tail on her bare skin was enough to raise goosebumps.)

Adora swallowed. Her heart was pounding. It was like being sixteen again. Slowly, carefully, she peeled one of her cards away and placed it in front of her.

The game went by in a blur after that, but they played it perfectly, as they always did. Twelve tricks won of thirteen, a small slam, and enough for victory in a single hand. Adora barely spoke throughout. Afterwards, as Catra made noises of commiseration even as she pocketed the Ambassador’s money, Adora made her excuses and fled.

The corridor outside the ball-room was empty. She sat down on the chaise lounge at one end and waited for her pulse to slow down.

‘It’s good to see you again.’

She flinched, not unexpectedly—(Catra had always been good at sneaking up on her, after all)—and glanced up.

The coat looked good on Catra. That was her first thought. Her second thought was, ‘What the _hell_ was that?’

Catra grinned. ‘That was _perfect_ is what it was. Couldn’t have planned it better. Betting on _whist_ , can you believe it? I was worried you’d give away that you knew me, but—’ She laughed. ‘They were so thoroughly convinced the Ambassador didn’t even seem upset! She congratulated me on my good luck. Ha!’

Adora’s throat closed with sudden panic. ‘I don’t—I don’t do that any more,’ she whispered.

Catra tilted her head quizzically. ‘Do what?’

‘ _That_. Steal from people.’

‘I’m not stealing from anyone.’

‘ _Cheating_ them, then.’

‘Ugh. Look, if it makes you feel better, she has _way_ more where that came from. Trust me.’

‘That’s not the point!’ Adora stood up, hands balled into fists. ‘If anyone found out—if they suspected—it would ruin my reputation.’

‘Your reputation,’ Catra said, her voice abruptly flat. ‘I remember a time we didn’t care about that sort of thing.’

‘Well, I do now!’ Adora snapped. ‘What about you? How are you even here? Aren’t you at all worried about _your_ reputation?’

Catra shrugged. ‘Easy come, easy go,’ she said, but there was something gone from her voice. It was as if she’d given up on the conversation and was simply seeing it through for politeness’ sake. ‘Forgive me,’ she added, ‘for assuming that what you _do_ is at all related to what you _want_.’

‘Catra—I didn’t mean to—’

‘No, it’s all right. I should have known better. I’d be terrified of Brightmoon, too, in your place.’

‘I’m not scared of Her Grace.’

‘No?’ Catra said, light, mocking. ‘She _made_ you, Adora. She could unmake you. That’s what you’re really worried about, isn’t it? Or are you telling me you actually care about the whole thing? The pure, innocent, _unruined_ girl, looking for a husband? Is that you, Adora?’

Each question was like a blow, pushing Adora down, preventing her from standing up. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she got out.

‘Maybe not. But at least I know what I want.’ Catra smirked. ‘And deep down, you’re just like me. You always will be. That game of whist just proved it.’

‘If you’re trying to goad me,’ Adora said, ‘it won’t work.’

Catra surveyed her a moment more. ‘You’re right. You’re not worth it. Good evening, _Lady Adora_.’

Long after she was gone, Adora sat unmoving on the chaise lounge and grappled with the fact that Catra had been _right_ —or, at least, not entirely wrong. The game of whist had felt like a dream. Not a good dream—but not a nightmare.

Adora took a long, shuddering breath, and tried to convince herself it was a dream not worth mourning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And /so it begins./


	4. Catra—June 1809

_In which our heroines overcome the consequences of sudden wealth and unexpected puberty_

Catra concentrated on her ears. ‘Is it working?’

‘Not yet—wait. Do that again.’

‘Do _what_ again?’

‘Whatever you just did!’

‘I didn’t do anything—’

‘There!’

Catra narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you pulling my leg?’

Adora laughed. ‘This was _your_ idea, silly. Here,’ she added, taking Catra’s hand in hers and guiding it up to her ears. ‘Feel for yourself.’

Catra did whatever it was she wasn’t doing. Her ear twitched noticeably beneath her fingers. ‘Huh.’ A slow smile spread across her features. ‘ _Huh_.’

‘So… now what?’

‘Now I practice. Remember the code?’

‘Trumps first,’ Adora said, ‘then the other suits.’

‘Right. And when I do this—’ Catra twitched her tail along Adora’s leg, making her shriek with laughter. ‘ _Adora_ ,’ she said, disapprovingly.

‘I’m sorry! It tickles.’

‘This is _serious_.’ Catra lowered her voice. ‘I heard that in London, card players shuffle one-handed.’

‘What? Why?’

Catra looked Adora dead in the eye. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘their other hand is always on the hilt of their _knife_. And if they catch us cheating…’

Adora’s eyes widened fractionally. Her hand went to her mouth in horror. Then Catra couldn’t help herself any longer and she burst out laughing.

‘Hey! That’s mean.’

‘The _look on your face_ —’

Adora crossed her arms and refused to look at Catra. ‘See if I ever help you again.’

‘Aww, A _do_ ra…’ Catra sidled up to her. ‘ _Please_ will you be my partner in crime?’

Adora held her gaze about two inches above Catra’s head. Then her lips twitched.

*

In the end, it was not the cold-hearted card-sharps of London who were their first targets, but Miss Weaver’s other girls. At some point after reaching the age of eleven—or the age Miss Weaver arbitrarily declared to be eleven, in Catra’s case—each girl was given a tiny weekly allowance, the better to teach them the merits of a frugal life; whereupon the dormitory transformed, almost immediately, into an illicit gambling den.

That first night, Catra felt a thrill go through her as the older girls invited them to join their games. They had always been off-limits before, secret whispers and knowing laughs heard deep into the night; now they were a part of her life, too. Undoubtedly their kindness was partly motivated by a desire for an easy mark, someone to fleece of all her money for as many weeks as they could. That was the hierarchy, after all. Suffer the ignominy of being on the bottom rung, then inflict it in turn on the next group of victims.

Catra had other plans. Within two weeks, she and Adora came into possession of the majority of money then circulating in the dormitory.

That, too, was a kind of lesson.

‘You’re cheating!’

Catra wasn’t as small as she’d been the day Adora had stepped between her and danger for the first time, but she was still smaller than most. ‘We are _not_ ,’ she said, taking a step backwards.

‘ _No one_ wins that often.’ Lonnie matched her step for step. She had grown as well, since that day—but not as much as Adora, standing between them now, one arm outstretched as if to shield Catra. She was a good inch taller than Lonnie.

‘Prove it!’ Catra said, safety giving her courage.

Lonnie’s grin showed teeth. ‘I don’t have to prove it. All I have to do is catch you without Adora to protect you.’

Catra bared her teeth. ‘I don’t need protection!’ She lunged forward. Adora held her back.

‘We’re not stupid,’ Adora said calmly. ‘We hid the money. You won’t get anything from us this way.’

Except they _were_ stupid and they _hadn’t_ hid the money, or at least not well—it was there, under their mattress, in the first place anyone who dared to steal it would look. Catra’s mind raced, immediately supplying her with half a dozen places up on the roof, perfectly safe, where only she could reach, places where she _could_ have kept their winnings if only she’d thought to hide them.

‘Don’t need protection?’ Lonnie snorted. ‘Don’t make me laugh. Everyone knows that you’re the mastermind and Adora is the muscle.’

There was suddenly a tension in Catra’s hand. Her muscles yearned to uncoil and strike the smirk right off Lonnie’s face. She was used to having insults thrown her away. She was even used to hearing them spoken about Adora, though fewer of their schoolmates dared to voice those where they could be heard. But _no one_ insulted their friendship. _That_ was sacrosanct.

‘Shut _up_ ,’ she hissed, throwing herself forward again, and the tension in her hand evaporated into a single, glorious swipe at Lonnie’s face—

There came an aborted cry. Catra stumbled to a halt and looked up. There was shock and pain on Adora’s face. For a moment Catra couldn’t work out what had happened. Then she looked at Adora’s arm, and there they were: three neat, parallel lines of blood where Adora had held her back one last time. Catra stared at her hand in disbelief.

Then she fled, and neither Adora nor Lonnie made a single move to stop her.

*

It was remarkably like twitching her ears.

That was the thought she focused on, after the tears had dried themselves out. If she thought about the mechanics she didn’t have to think about the consequences.

It was afternoon. The dormitory was empty; everyone was in class. She was _alone_ , and she’d be alone from now on—

Like twitching her ears. She kept her gaze fixed on her fingertips, retracting and extending her claws over and over, flexing muscles she had not, until that moment, realised existed. That was the trouble with not being entirely human. There was no one there to tell her these things, to warn her what might happen.

Maybe it was for the best she be alone.

The door opened. She flinched—she hadn’t heard the bell. Was class over? But no. There was only the single tread of footsteps, and Catra screwed her eyes shut, willing them to pass her by, to ignore her, to leave her to her shame.

They did not. The mattress depressed by her side. ‘Hey,’ Adora said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Catra mumbled. ‘You have class.’

‘You’re more important than arithmetic.’

Slowly, ever so slowly, Catra looked up. Her eyes were wet. She sniffed. ‘I _hurt_ you. You shouldn’t want to be my friend anymore.’

Adora glanced at the scratches on her arm. Catra couldn’t help following suit. They had stopped bleeding. Would they scar? Had she marked Adora forever? She buried her face in her hands.

‘Did you know your claws could do that?’

Catra shook her head miserably.

‘Were you trying to hurt me?’

‘No! Of course not.’

‘Then it’s not your fault,’ Adora whispered, wrapping her arms around Catra’s trembling frame. ‘It was an accident. You’re not going to get rid of me because of an accident, are you?’

‘I—’ Catra, get rid of Adora? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? ‘I saw your face,’ Catra said, a fresh sob catching in her throat. ‘You looked… you looked…’

‘I was just surprised,’ Adora said gently. ‘It didn’t even hurt that much. And look, now we match.’ She pressed her arm next to Catra’s, the scratches on her pale skin mirroring the darker stripes on Catra’s forearm. ‘See?’

Catra sobbed a laugh. ‘Do you really mean it?’

Adora nudged her with a shoulder. ‘I mean it. Promise.’

‘You’ll still be my friend?’

‘Always.’

Catra paused. ‘Can I show you something?’

Adora smiled. ‘Always.’

Catra extended her claws. It was painstaking work, more difficult than she’d expected, but she persevered; and when she was done, the letters _C + A_ were carved into the wood of their bedframe, down at eye-level where no one but them would ever see.

‘There,’ she said. ‘How’s that for arithmetic?’

*

Lonnie found them again the next day.

‘I can make trouble for you with the others,’ she said without preamble. ‘But—’ Her gaze lingered on Catra’s hands. ‘I admit I can’t touch you myself. So how about we make this mutually beneficial?’ She clapped her hands together and grinned. ‘I want in.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by far the fastest I have ever written a chapter of a fic. I'm excited to get places! But these flashbacks are important, too. Bit of context for last chapter, here, and of course we gotta start getting the gang together... (In case you are wondering: I don't know enough about whist to really hash out a series of secret signals, but the general idea is that Catra is signalling the contents of her hand with her ears, then giving more specific instructions with her tail.)
> 
> In further exciting news I've also more or less planned this out, and I think it will be 17 chapters. (Which is a bit scary. It sounds like a lot. But some of them are shortish like this one, so I think it'll be okay!)
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you thought and join me next time, when a duel is fought...


	5. Adora—April 1817

_In which Adora is tricked into fighting a duel_

In the manner of an itch once identified which, having been content to bide its time, now makes itself known at every opportunity, Catra entered her life.

Adora had thought their encounter at Lady Plumeria’s ball might serve as a bookend—the final page turned in a story that had lain open for the last two years. She had welcomed it, even. A half hour all told, the wordless synchronicity of the game and the clash that had followed: before and after, past and present.

Instead it threatened to become the beginning of something new.

There Catra was in St. James’s Park, the week the weather began to turn, strolling down the path like just another young lady; there she was stepping out of a carriage onto a street in Mayfair. On one occasion Adora was certain she saw Catra’s mane of unruly hair turn a corner on Grosvenor Square itself.

Sometimes she was alone. Other times she was with Kyle, or Lonnie, or people Adora did not recognise—and it was that fact that truly would not let her be. Catra had clearly started some new life in London, and it caused Adora no small amount of consternation that she did not know what it was, or who was in it, or what _her_ role in it was.

Because Catra would nod to her, cordially, should they happen to pass in the street; or she would smile, politely, beneath the brim of a feathered hat. Adora knew those smiles well. She knew that _polite_ was just a costume Catra wore when it suited her. She did not smile back.

Adora’s determination to ignore Catra waxed and waned with the passing weeks. Like an itch, her presence in London was nothing but an annoyance, a minor inconvenience.

But it is the truest nature of itches to want to be scratched.

*

Those were the sorts of thoughts occupying Adora’s mind the morning Bow found her in the parlour, staring idly at the painting above the fireplace. (A portrait of the Duchess of Brightmoon with her husband, God rest his soul, both of them resplendent in dress uniform.)

‘All right,’ he said, lounging in the chair opposite. ‘Glimmer is in the garden conducting a survey on—I think—the urban distribution of England’s butterflies. _I_ was having a lovely time reading in the sun. And even Angella had a table brought so she could work outside. It’s practically summer in April. But _you…_ ’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You are in here, apparently so entranced by Her Grace’s beauty you’ve not been able to stop staring at that portrait all morning. I conclude, therefore’—and he raised a finger dramatically, like David’s Socrates—‘that something is, as they say, _afoot_.’

Adora’s lips twitched into a smile. ‘Nothing’s afoot.’

‘Adora. Please.’ Bow gave her a frank look. ‘If it was just the one day, I’d believe you. But you’ve been like this for weeks! Something’s bothering you.’

There was a pineapple on the coffee table, sitting serenely in a silver bowl. Adora reached forward and ran her hand over its prickly skin. It reminded her of Catra’s hair. She sighed. ‘And if it is?’

‘Then I would consider it my duty to help you work through it.’ Bow grinned. Adora liked that about him—he never took himself too seriously, no matter how sincere his offer of help might be. ‘Or to respect your desire for brooding solitude. Whichever.’

‘I’m not _brooding_.’

‘Not yet, anyway.’

Adora laughed. ‘All right! Fine. You win.’ She leaned back, crossed her legs, uncrossed them again, and frowned. ‘I don’t know where to begin. It’s—it’s about my childhood, I suppose.’

Bow made a show of ensconcing himself further in his chair. ‘Then start with that.’

And so she gave him the story.

She’d hitherto been tight-lipped about her past—not for any conscious reason, except that it had seemed easier that way: easier to divide her life into two neat parts. The story she now relayed to Bow was neither loaded with meaning nor made superficial; it simply was.

(Which was not to say it was the _complete_ story. Some few of her most private moments Adora had lived alone. The others she had shared with Catra. Those remained with her.)

It took longer than she expected, but Bow remained attentive throughout, interjecting here and there to encourage her or clarify a point where she had got the narrative muddled up. ‘So?’ she said, a little plaintively, when she’d finished. ‘What do you think I should do?’

‘What do _you_ think you should do?’

Adora stared at him. ‘You’re supposed to _help_.’

Bow laughed. ‘I am helping! I’m helping you arrive at your own conclusions.’

‘ _Bow_.’ Adora gave him her best unimpressed look.

‘All right, all right. If it were me,’ he said, putting a special emphasis on those words, ‘I would try and work out a new normal. I dislike the idea that you can just shut the door like that on someone you were so close to. If it could happen to you and Catra, then it could happen to me and Glimmer, you know?’

Adora sighed. ‘So you’re telling me to reach out to her.’

‘No, I’m telling you that _I’d_ reach out to her in your place. I like trying to find the best in people. But, you know, maybe sometimes, for some people, that isn’t possible. Personally I think that’s a little sad. But if you want that clean break with the past, that doesn’t make you _bad_. Just different.’

‘So you’re telling me… there _is_ no right answer.’

Bow snorted. ‘And even if there was, I don’t know why you’re trusting me to have it. But look on the bright side! As long as you do what _feels_ right, you’ll _be_ right.’ He grinned. ‘There. Was that helpful?’

Adora threw her head back and groaned.

*

‘Who is that? In the purple dress?’

Glimmer followed Adora’s gaze and laughed. ‘I thought my mother told you _not_ to associate with the Frightley Set.’

‘I’m not associating, I’m just asking.’

‘That’s Lady Entrapta. Heiress to a minor estate up north somewhere.’

Adora mulled that over. ‘So she’s one of… one of the Earl’s people?’

‘Yes. Exactly the sort of person Frightley loves to be associated with. Brilliant, a bit eccentric. Does work with the Royal Society, I think.’

The two of them were standing at the perimeter of the room, sipping punch so diluted it barely tasted of fruit at all. As afternoon engagements went, it was quite pleasant—a private affair hosted by Lady Mermista of Salineas, barely two dozen people, the sort of occasion on which, in theory, two young people might meet, and flirt, and court. In Adora’s case the theory was not yet being put into practice—but she liked Mermista herself well enough, and her guests were sufficiently interesting so as to carry a conversation.

(And yet—every social engagement, no matter how pleasant, was improved by ten minutes spent with Glimmer, watching from the periphery and swapping gossip.)

‘Why did Mermista invite her? The way your mother spoke of them, I half-expected them to all be convicted criminals.’

Glimmer sighed. ‘I don’t honestly know why my mother hates the Earl so much. They have history, obviously, but she’s never gone into it.’

‘What about his…’ Adora frowned, looking for the right word. ‘Followers? Protégés?’

‘Mixed bag. As a set they think rather highly of themselves. Frightley himself is hardly ever seen in public, so the mystique rubs off, I guess. Some of them aren’t bad individually though.’ Glimmer paused. ‘Don’t tell Mother I said that.’

‘I won’t,’ Adora said, but the lion’s share of her attention was focused on Lady Entrapta and her companion. She’d tried to ignore them. She’d mingled and sipped at her punch and laughed in just the way a young lady should laugh, but as soon as she’d taken a break her gaze had gone right back to the corner where Catra was, in that very moment, leaning down to whisper something in Entrapta’s ear, and Adora could hardly fail to miss the casual way Catra wound strands of Entrapta’s hair around her fingers, or the familiarity with which she—

‘Glimmer! Adora!’ Bow’s voice cut through her reverie. ‘Have you met the lieutenant yet?’

Adora blinked. _New lives,_ she reminded herself. _We both have new lives_.

‘I don’t believe we have,’ she said, and let Bow lead them back to the centre of the room.

The man holding court around the coffee table certainly cut the perfect image of a lieutenant—the lines of his navy uniform as clean as his shoes were shiny, a dress-sword belted at his waist—but Mermista, seated next to him, wore an expression of such horrified fascination that Adora found herself suddenly curious.

‘Lady Glimmer, Miss Adora,’ Bow said with a flourish, ‘may I introduce Lieutenant—’

‘Hawk!’ the lieutenant said, whereupon his voice immediately dropped to a confidential level. ‘But you may call me Sea Hawk, for I have chosen to foreswear my given name until such a time as all England’s enemies are defeated!’

Mermista met Adora’s gaze as she and Glimmer seated themselves. ‘A noble sacrifice,’ Mermista said, in a tone which Adora supposed could, in theory, be interpreted as sincere. ‘At this rate I doubt you shall ever have it back.’

There followed a moment of silence. Then Bow said, ‘Tell them what you were about to tell us!’

Sea Hawk leaned forward. His listeners followed suit. ‘There I was,’ he said, voice barely above a whisper, ‘on the deck of the _Victory_. I could see the French bearing down on us—twice our number, and already their guns began to blaze! And I turned to my dear friend and I said, Horatio, we must cut their line at once or we are lost! I will never forget the look he gave me then—his last hour upon the Earth, and I swear to you he knew it—’

‘Hold on.’

Sea Hawk turned to face the newcomer with a look of comical offence at being interrupted. ‘Yes?’

There was an empty chair at one end of the table. Catra leaned against the armrest. ‘You’re talking about Trafalgar?’

Sea Hawk drew himself up. ‘Of course I am! The greatest naval victory this country has ever known!’

‘The Battle of Trafalgar,’ Catra drawled, ‘which was fought in 1805.’ A delicate silence followed as everyone present processed this fact. ‘Tell me, in what capacity were you aboard the _HMS Victory_? Galley boy?’ She made a show of looking Sea Hawk up and down. ‘Ship’s toddler?’

It was, Adora reflected, to Sea Hawk’s credit that he had sufficiently captivated his audience so as not to invite calling out until now. ‘How dare you!’ he cried, leaping to his feet, every inch the affronted gentleman. ‘Will no one call out this blatant slander?’

Mermista rolled her eyes so aggressively it was a wonder she didn’t give herself a fit of dizziness. No one said anything.

‘You must admit,’ Adora said after a few more moments had passed, ‘she _does_ have a point.’

‘Et tu?’ Sea Hawk spared her a brief, injured look before turning back to Catra. ‘I demand you answer for your words!’ As if his meaning were not clear enough, he put a hand to the hilt of his sword.

Catra pretended to examine her nails. ‘Nah.’

Sea Hawk blinked. ‘What?’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘You retract your words?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

Sea Hawk paused. ‘Then you!’ he said after several seconds had passed, pointing at Adora. ‘Honour must be satisfied!’

It was, Adora thought, a continuing marvel how much trouble a few idle words could land you in. Especially in what passed for _polite_ society. ‘I don’t mean to—’

‘He’s right, you know,’ Catra interrupted, looking wholly too satisfied. ‘Or do you not care about your reputation? Just think of the dishonour!’ Her eyes widened theatrically. ‘To make such an accusation, then refuse to back it up?’

‘Cut it out,’ Adora snapped. ‘I wasn’t the one who—’ All of a sudden she became aware that the entire room had come to a halt, that two dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on the three of them. She swallowed.

Catra smirked. ‘Maybe not. But you’re the one who cares.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Adora saw Glimmer give a tiny shrug. Her jaw worked. Accepting the duel meant giving in to Catra’s machination. Refusing it meant admitting Catra had been right about her the night of Lady Perfuma’s ball.

It was, in the end, hardly a choice worth making—and it _had_ been some time since her last duel. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I accept your challenge.’

‘Excellent! I shall meet you on the field of battle tomorrow, at—’

‘No,’ Adora said. ‘Now. Let’s get it over with.’

‘Er—’ The wind left Sea Hawk’s sails. ‘I would hardly wish to duel a lady while she was improperly attired…’

‘Let me worry about that.’ Adora smiled up at him. ‘Or would you rather withdraw?’

‘Never!’ Sea Hawk gestured to Mermista. ‘My lady, if you will permit us the use of your garden to settle this matter…’

Mermista’s sigh was so loud it could be heard throughout the room. ‘ _Must_ you?’

*

Adora watched Catra undress her in the dappled sunlight beneath an oak tree. ‘Hurry up,’ she muttered. ‘It takes Glimmer half as long.’

‘I don’t make the rules,’ Catra said. ‘You chose to fight on my behalf, and that makes me your second. There,’ she added, her fingers finding the final ties at the small of Adora’s back. The outer layer of her duelling dress and most of its volume came away, leaving her in something like a cross between trousers and skirts.

She’d worn her sword beneath. The simple texture of the hilt beneath her fingers calmed her. ‘You can move away now.’

Catra ignored her. ‘Speaking of which,’ she said, standing up, her breath tickling the back of Adora’s neck. ‘What _am_ I to think? Denouncing me one night, jumping to defend my honour the next…’

Adora’s breath came faster. She was acutely aware that, not half an hour ago, she had been envying Lady Entrapta for being in exactly this position. ‘I won’t let you manipulate me, Catra.’

‘You won’t let me _what_?’ Catra stepped away, struggling to contain her laughter. ‘Aww, you’re _adorable_. How exactly do you think we got here’—and she gestured at the garden, the spectators lining up, Sea Hawk pacing back and forth in readiness—‘if you’ve not been letting me manipulate you?’

Adora ground her teeth. ‘Are we done here?’

Catra’s smile was far too smug. ‘For now. Go win a duel for me, _my lady_.’

The duel, at least, was straightforward.

Adora studied Sea Hawk as Lady Mermista, in her role as hostess, recited the rules. He was armed with a rapier, a fantastically beautiful piece with a gilded handguard. That in itself didn’t mean anything—rapiers were perfectly suitable weapons for duelling—but in Adora’s experience the only people who used such swords were those who valued ornament over function. A nobleman’s sword spent the vast majority of its time on its owner’s belt, and a rapier’s length made it exceedingly difficult to sit comfortably while wearing one.

Mermista was done. They bowed to each other and raised their swords. Adora kept her eyes on Sea Hawk’s feet and waited.

He came in fast, sword flashing in a series of feints. Rather than commit to any of them, Adora side-stepped and raised her own sword to deflect Sea Hawk’s blow as his momentum carried him past. She pivoted, ready to parry his follow-up, but it was not forthcoming.

Sea Hawk was by no means a _poor_ swordsman, Adora reflected as he took a moment to collect himself. But nor was he exceptional, and when she dodged his second pass as easily as his first, she thought he began to realise that. People who had never witnessed a duel thought of them as noisy affairs, metal striking metal in a blur of parry and riposte—but in truth, any such clash of swords was bound to produce a winner in due course. The majority of the duel, therefore, was silent, a beautifully choreographed exercise in saving face.

Once Adora judged Sea Hawk’s pride to be sufficiently assuaged, she went on the offensive for the first time. Double-step forward, the heavier weight of her blade swatting his aside with ease; the stumble and fall as he tried to scramble back out of reach; the point of her sword brought neatly to his chest.

Sea Hawk offered a salute. Adora smiled, sheathed her sword, and offered him her hand. Once on his feet again he clapped her on the shoulder. ‘A famous victory!’ he proclaimed over the sound of polite applause. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Lady Adora, and I declare there is no shame in losing to an accomplished duellist such as yourself!’

Adora eyed him warily. That was always what they said, of course, and some of them meant it—but there was no harm in checking. ‘No hard feelings?’

‘Hah!’ Sea Hawk said. ‘Who hasn’t gotten carried away and embellished the odd war story, eh? You were quite right to call me out on it. Keeps me honest, and what is a man without his honesty!’

*

‘He was so honest! So gracious in defeat!’ Bow’s eyes sparkled in the reflected light of the setting sun. ‘The Prince Regent would be lucky if one in ten officers of the Royal Navy were like him!’

Adora rolled her eyes. ‘He made up those stories, Bow.’

Bow grinned and raised his glass of sherry to her. ‘Oh, maybe one or two. But you two didn’t hear the stories he told before you got there! All true, I’m sure of it.’

They were in Her Grace’s library, having retired there after dinner. The adrenaline had long since faded and Adora finally found herself relaxing. A sore loser left a sour taste in her mouth for days to come; but Bow was right about Sea Hawk’s sportsmanship, and she felt good about her afternoon’s work.

(Even the Duchess’ interrogation had failed to dampen her spirits:

_‘I hear you fought a duel today,’ Angella said over dinner._

_Adora nodded. ‘It was a trifle, but the gentleman insisted.’ She did not mention Catra._

_‘I understand. Sometimes you are given no choice. But tell me one thing: I hear that Lady Entrapta was present. I trust the duel had nothing to do with her?’_

_‘No, Your Grace,’ Adora answered, and told herself it was technically not a lie._ )

‘So, Adora…’ Glimmer said. There was mischief in her eyes.

Adora braced herself. ‘Yes?’

‘I have to say, when Bow told me about your dilemma, I spent some time thinking of possible solutions. But I don’t think I’d _ever_ have come up with “fighting a duel to defend her honour”. Quite a novel approach.’

Adora raised her eyebrows at Bow. ‘Really?’

He held up his hands in surrender. ‘You wanted advice, you came to me. If you’d wanted someone to keep a secret you should have talked to Glimmer in the first place.’

‘Oh, don’t be mad, Adora, I made him tell me. I was worried about you too, you know.’

Adora winced. ‘Was I really that obvious?’

‘You _do_ wear your heart on your sleeve sometimes.’ Glimmer grinned. ‘But don’t worry! That’s a good thing. Expressiveness is a virtue.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. For example, expressing your feelings for a childhood friend through the medium of ritualised combat.’

Adora groaned and reached for the bottle of sherry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really Bow and Glimmer are being unfair. Who among us HASN'T attempted to work through our feelings with the help of a bladed weapon?
> 
> Join me next time as our heroes attend a garden party and Adora does NOT play croquet with Catra, because croquet wasn't a thing until the 1850s, how silly to think it was, but they do hit things with mallets! Until then, let me know what you thought! <3


	6. Adora—May 1817

_In which balls are struck with several implements_

Adora watched London disappear around them at the slow, steady pace of a carriage making its way into the countryside.

She’d had precious few opportunities to leave the capital. She knew, from what little Miss Weaver had seen fit to divulge, that she’d been born outside the city; but her earliest coherent memories dated to the school and she did not even know if that meant the countryside or a city somewhere else in England.

Then she had come to Grosvenor Square and the world had unfolded before her, all the possibilities that had previously been denied her suddenly crowding for attention: the storied idyll of the home counties, the white cliffs of Dover, the resorts at Brighton and Margate; but Tambora had had other ideas. It was, she supposed, a valuable lesson in the principle of cause and effect that a volcano in the Dutch East Indies, thousands of miles distant, had robbed an entire hemisphere of its summer.

All of which combined meant that, when Glimmer had casually announced that the Countess of Plumeria was inviting the three of them to her estate in the countryside, the trip meant much more to her than a mere weekend of idleness.

First, however, there was the matter of getting there. They’d left at the crack of dawn, and even with a mid-day break at an inn for lunch, Adora’s legs were begging to be free from the confinement of the carriage by the time it trundled up the final country lane.

‘Why is it called Heartblossom House?’ Adora asked as said house hove into view around a bend. Even the weather—blue sky interspersed with the dark promise of rain—did not dampen the tranquillity of the tree-lined boulevard that formed the final approach.

‘You’ll see,’ Glimmer said. ‘I wouldn’t want to deny Perfuma her grand reveal.’

It had only been an idle question—but now there was the element of mystery. Adora sighed and exercised her patience.

She did not have to wait long. Lady Perfuma was there at the top of the steps as they disembarked, and there followed the usual flurry of courtesies and practical matters—rooms to be assigned, trunks to be taken to them—and then Perfuma smiled and swept them into the grand hall. ‘Welcome to Heartblossom!’

Adora wasn’t immediately sure what she was looking at. The far wall seemed rough and uneven. Then the whorls and curls resolved into the outline of a tree, worked in relief into the full height of the wall, roots descending below waist-height, the trunk and branches rising just shy of the ceiling, every leaf rendered in smooth, polished wood; and there, at the heart of the canopy, a gem shone unlike any other. Adora could not tell how large it was, exactly, but it was not the size that set it apart but the light. Wherever light hit it, the gem reflected it back tenfold, coloured with every hue imaginable. It was like sunlight on water, and indeed the ceiling around the gem took on the dappled aspect of water viewed from beneath.

Presently Adora realised she was staring. Perfuma did not seem to mind—she had on the look of a proud parent. ‘No one is entirely clear whether the house is named for the stone or vice versa,’ she said. ‘Both have been in my family for centuries.’

‘It’s—it’s extraordinary,’ Adora said, and meant it. Perfuma beamed.

The rest of the house was destined to be a disappointment after that, but even so Adora found herself at something of a loss. She knew, of course, that the Duchess of Brightmoon was one of the richest people in the country—but everything in London was cramped at times, even the townhouses of the rich. Here, in the countryside, it was different. Room after room unfolded in glittering luxury and when it all became too much for her, Adora left the others in the games room on the pretence of needing to stretch her legs.

She was wearing a dress, a simple, modest affair in red, loose and comfortable—unsuited, therefore, to a London ball, but entirely appropriate for a private engagement with friends. For once she was glad. A corset would have felt unbearable, she thought, and even her jacket and trousers were tight-fitting enough to make themselves felt. As it was, she felt airy and light, and it was exactly what she needed to counter the almost overwhelming opulence of the interior.

That feeling of lightness lasted all of five minutes into her walk. There was a slight slope at the rear of the house, and where it levelled out an alley had been demarcated where a lone woman was playing at pall-mall. Her dress was far more fashionable than Adora’s—that much was clear even from a distance—and that was what fooled Adora until she was a mere few dozen paces away.

She had, after all, _never_ known Catra to wear dresses.

It didn’t even occur to Adora to turn around and find some other, unpopulated walking route. ‘What are you _doing_ here?’

Catra looked up mid-swing and missed the ball entirely. If she was surprised to see Adora she didn’t show it. ‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m hitting this ball with a hammer.’

‘Mallet.’

‘What?’

‘It’s called a mallet.’

‘I’m _terribly_ sorry. I’m hitting this mallet with a hammer.’

Adora opened her mouth. The mocking look on Catra’s face gave her pause. ‘You’re trying to get a rise out of me.’

Catra laughed and swung her mallet in a lazy arc. The _thunk_ of wood on wood was as satisfying as the dull thud of wood on Adora’s calf was not. ‘ _Ow_.’

‘Oops.’ Catra smirked. ‘Would you like me to kiss it better?’

For half a moment Adora was tempted to say yes—only as a means of calling Catra’s bluff, of course, of wiping the self-satisfied grin off her face. ‘Do you even know how to play pall-mall?’ she said instead.

'It's a game?' Catra held up her mallet and stared at it in faux wonder. 'I thought it was what refined people did when they wanted to hit each _other_ with hammers.’

Adora gritted her teeth. 'Answer the question.’

Catra rolled her eyes. 'Yes, of _course_ I know how to play.’ She took another swing. The ball flew through the air, missing its target—a metal hoop raised some two feet off the ground—and rolling downhill into a small thicket of trees. 'See?'

'I meant,' Adora said, ignoring the part of her screaming to leave well enough alone, 'tell me what you’re doing here. Are you following me?'

Catra stared at her. 'Christ, Adora, you really do think it’s all about you.’ She set off in the direction of the thicket, forcing Adora to catch up. 'Following you? I haven't even seen you since the duel. Thanks for that, by the way. My honour felt _thoroughly_ defended.’

Adora ignored the barb. They were in among the trees now, Catra making a show of looking for the ball. 'Then what _are_ you doing here? What do you _want_ , Catra?'

Catra spun on her. 'What I _want_ ,' she snarled, and Adora took an involuntary step back, only to find herself pressed up against a tree. 'Is the old Adora back. _My_ Adora. Not you.’ Catra was right in front of Adora, preventing her from moving with nothing more than her sheer presence, her eyes boring into Adora with none of their usual mockery. ‘I want the girl who doesn’t think she’s better than me just because the Duchess of _fucking_ Brightmoon plucked her from obscurity.’

'Catra, it wasn’t like that, I never wanted—’

'I don't care what you wanted! _I_ want the girl who doesn’t resent me for having found my own way! And if I can’t have her, I at least want the Adora who’s willing to accept that I have new friends now. Friends like Lady Scorpia, whose guest I am, not that it’s _any_ of your business what I’m doing here.’

Catra’s face was so close to hers. When was the last time she’d really studied it? For the better part of her life it had been the first thing she’d seen every morning, but now it was different—not in any way she could define, but different all the same, in the gradual accumulation of changes she hadn’t been there to follow. How strange to see her now, wearing the kind of clothing neither of them would ever have imagined they’d wear, back in the dormitory of Miss Weaver’s.

(Catra wore the dress as well as any fashionable young lady, but in Adora’s mind it would always be a costume. _Her_ Catra scrambled up rooftops and came back down with skinned knees. She would never wear something as restrictive as the corset she had on now, no matter to how great advantage it showed off the expanse of her skin.)

‘What are you doing?’ Catra sounded puzzled. One of her ears twitched.

Adora froze. Her hand was halfway raised, fingers extended. She licked her lips and let it drop. 'You’re bluffing,' she said—not with any real conviction, because although she’d never heard of a Lady Scorpia, she was fully aware that her knowledge of English society barely scratched the surface.

‘Am I?’ Catra said flatly. ‘Then take me up to the house and call me out. Only be careful. People are already starting to talk. Imagine what they’ll say if you turn up, all dishevelled like that, ready to fight the woman you were willing to defend just the other month.’ She was breathing hard now, bosom rising and falling with an even rhythm. Then she leaned in and her breath was warm on Adora’s cheek. ‘A tryst in the bushes? A lovers' quarrel, perhaps?’

Adora jerked away, stumbling past Catra, her whole body on edge, quivering with tension. ‘Don’t—don’t say that.’

‘Of course. I forgot.’ Catra bared her teeth, but the real anger was receding, hidden again beneath the mask of snide aggression. ‘You’re respectable now. And this is _hardly_ a seemly argument for a respectable young lady to be having.’

Adora got her breathing under control. ‘This is my life now,’ she snapped. ‘And I like it! So forgive me for trying not to ruin it for myself. Besides,’ she added, ‘if you want to keep moving in the same circles, you might want to start playing by the same rules.’

‘Oh, Adora,’ Catra said, and her voice had suffered longer than any voice before it. ‘Same circles, yes, but what on _Earth_ makes you think I want to play by the same rules?’

Adora was silent for a count of three heartbeats. Then she said, ‘you’re not even holding the mallet right.’

‘Then why don’t you come show me how?’ Catra said, low, words positively dripping with invitation.

Adora was halfway to a response before she reconsidered. Nothing good, she reasoned, would come of letting herself be baited any more than she already had. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said stiffly.

The echoes of Catra’s laughter followed her all the way back to the house, and if she could put a reason to the warmth washing over her from head to toes, it was not one she cared to name.

*

‘You’re holding the cue wrong,’ Glimmer said the third time Adora missed a shot.

Adora groaned. ‘How are you better than me at this? You can barely even reach the table.’

Glimmer’s eyes shone with mischief. ‘I’ll take that compliment and ignore the other part. Want me to show you?’

‘Please.’

‘Here,’ Glimmer said, coming up behind Adora, her hands gently guiding Adora’s grip on the cue. ‘Between thumb and forefinger is best,’ she added, demonstrating. ‘Try it like that.’

Adora sighted down the length of the cue and struck her cue ball dead centre, sending it ricocheting back and forth along the felt of the billiards table but failing to hit either of the object balls.

‘Good! Next we can work on your aim.’

‘What’s the point? I’ll never be good at billiards.’

Glimmer’s arms tightened briefly around her. ‘Are you okay?’ she murmured. ‘You seem tense.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Adora said, then immediately contradicted herself: ‘Except—did you know Catra was here?’

‘No. I didn’t.’ Glimmer took the cue from Adora and spun her around until they were face to face. ‘You shouldn’t let her get to you.’

‘I know. _Honestly_ I know. But she’s…’ Adora grimaced. ‘She’s possessed of a rare talent when it comes to winding me up.’

‘I can tell.’ Glimmer smiled slightly. ‘Let’s make a deal. Next time she tries to wind you up, come find me instead and I’ll wind you right back down. Maybe you’ll even get good at billiards.’

‘Don’t do it, Adora!’ Bow called from the corner where he and Perfuma were playing cards. ‘If you get too good she’ll start fleecing you!’

‘Like Perfuma’s fleecing you now?’ Glimmer said loudly.

‘Just like that!’

Glimmer snorted. ‘Think of it this way,’ she said at a more normal volume. ‘If all else fails, you can beat her off with the cue.’

The mental image was enough to break through the last of Adora’s frustrations. ‘Deal,’ she said, laughing, and when Glimmer offered her a hand she let herself be spun into one of the armchairs by the window. ‘And thank you. For looking out for me.’

‘Of course. Mother would be _severely_ unimpressed if I let you get caught up with the wrong crowd.’

Adora raised her eyebrows. ‘And here I thought _I_ was the one keeping _you_ out of trouble.’

‘That too.’

They sat for a time in silence, watching the light leave the world outside. It was an easy, lazy afternoon—exactly the sort she needed after her encounter with Catra. Something soft to complement the sharpness.

‘Speaking of wrong crowds,’ Adora said presently, ‘do you know a Lady Scorpia? Catra said she was her guest.’

‘Ah,’ Glimmer said. ‘That _would_ explain why she’s here. Perfuma has known Scorpia since they were both children. She’d have told Scorpia to bring whoever she liked.’

‘Let me guess,’ Adora said, reading between the lines. ‘Lady Scorpia is one of Frightley’s people, too.’

Glimmer looked vaguely uncomfortable. ‘Well, yes. But she’s not like the others. Everyone likes Scorpia. Even Mother finds it difficult to say a bad word about her.’

Adora frowned. ‘Then why does she associate with them?’

‘Who knows?’ Glimmer stretched a foot out and nudged Adora’s thigh. ‘You don’t have to keep interrogating me, you know. They’re just people. Scorpia must be around somewhere. Go and talk to her yourself!’

‘But your mother said—’

‘I won’t tell if you won’t. I understand her point of view. Lord Frightley _does_ tend to be a lightning rod for controversy. But, honestly, it’s not like it’s infectious. It is perfectly possible to have a conversation with the Frightley Set _without_ immediately finding yourself compromised. Trust me.’

Adora blushed slightly. She had, perhaps, placed too much stock in Her Grace’s words—Angella had told her to stay out of trouble, that was all. A casual conversation was a casual conversation, whether your partner was a troublesome sort or not, and Angella had judged her level-headed enough to extricate herself should the topic take a turn she did not wish to follow. ‘You’re right. I’ve been acting like a child.’

‘I usually am.’ Glimmer winked. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go talk to Perfuma about the dinner arrangements.’

*

Lady Scorpia, as Adora discovered when they were seated next to each other at dinner, was in fact a perfectly pleasant dining companion.

( _‘I know what you’re thinking.’_

_‘What?’_

_‘My parents were very literal.’_

_And Adora, who had, it must be said, been slightly staring, blushed as Scorpia laughed and demonstrated the remarkable dexterity with which she could deploy her unique anatomy.)_

Nor did the house retain the oppressiveness she’d felt on first entering. Whether it was the effect of seeing it used like any other house, of simple familiarity, or whether there had been some fault of her own, corrected during her conversation with Catra; whichever it was, she felt perfectly comfortable as she prepared herself for bed.

Wherein she lay for the better part of two hours, tossing and turning, before finally surrendering to the pull of wakefulness. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, she exited her room and made her way down the carpeted hallway. She turned a corner, hoping she’d remembered the layout of the house correctly—

And came face to face with a pair of bright, blue-and-yellow eyes.

‘Now who’s following who?’ Catra hissed. She stood outside a half-open door—was it her bedroom? Adora didn’t know.

‘I was just… I didn’t know you were…’ Adora cleared her throat. ‘What are you doing?’

There came a muffled query from inside the room. Adora thought the voice was Scorpia’s.

‘Everything is fine,’ Catra replied. Then she closed the door. ‘If you want me to respect how you choose to live,’ she said in a furious whisper, ‘you can start by respecting how _I_ choose to live. Do you understand?’

Adora swallowed. ‘But you’re—’

‘And where are _you_ headed in the middle of the night? Or do you think I don’t know that Lady Glimmer’s room is two doors down?’

‘Catra, I wasn’t insinuating anything.’

‘You were,’ Catra shot back. ‘I can hear it in your voice. I don’t _care_ how innocent—or not—your intentions with Brightmoon are. But I’m tired of you assuming the worst of me.’

‘You’re being awfully defensive,’ Adora said slowly, ‘for someone with innocent intent.’

In the darkness Adora could just make out Catra’s tail lashing in frustration. ‘You still don’t get it. I. Don’t. _Care_.’

Adora didn’t half know why she was so set on this argument here, now. ‘Society cares,’ she began, but anything else she had to say was cut off by the surprised gasp as Catra surged forwards, pushing her against the wall. The moulding pressed uncomfortably against her lower back. Catra backed up a little, but even so Adora could feel the heat of her body through their nightgowns, and she had to clamp down on the urge to seek closer contact.

‘But why do _you_ care?’ Catra whispered, her tail raising goosebumps on Adora’s arm. ‘Do us both a favour and _figure out the answer_.’

Then she withdrew and without another word let herself into Scorpia’s room.

Glimmer was asleep when Adora found her, but she roused herself enough to mutter a sleepy greeting as Adora slipped into her bed; and as she slowly wound down, all Adora could think about was how different it felt to be pressed up against Glimmer—and how similar.

*

The next morning, of course, the Heartblossom Stone was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look! There's a reason the word "thief" appears in the title of this fic!
> 
> A few notes:  
> 1\. I'm giving in. I admit it. I've added the slow-burn tag. IT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE THIS.  
> 2\. Having said that, I promise, we are nearly at the point where Adora might conceivably kiss someone. I want to write it as much as (I hope) you guys want to read it. :D
> 
> Anyway, as ever, let me know what you thought - I'd be curious to hear how y'all see the relationship developing from here! I think this chapter lays the groundwork for the endgame catradora + glimmadora dynamic I have in mind...


	7. Adora—July 1817

_In which Adora and Glimmer take the waters; featuring a reflection on the difference between love and lust_

‘It was the crime of the century! I can hardly believe we were there to witness it!’ Bow gesticulated with such animation that Adora had to reach out and rescue his glass from the pavement.

‘The crime of the century?’ Mermista did not sound impressed. ‘They _put it back_.’

They were sitting on the promenade at Margate Sands, surrounded by tables of other café-goers down from London for the weekend—at least one group of whom were having the exact same conversation, minus the benefit of personal experience. Even a month later, the sheer oddity of the Heist That Wasn’t kept it at the forefront of the public consciousness.

‘That’s the point! Imagine the scene: a house in the country, a weekend with friends—there was no way out! The thief knew that fleeing would give them away. They knew the house would be searched from top to bottom. There would be no way to get away with it, and they _did it anyway_.’ Bow raised a finger. ‘And then! The pièce de résistance! In the middle of the day, with everyone paying obsessive attention to everyone else—they _put it back_. _That_ was the crime of the century!’

‘Uh-huh.’ Mermista took a sip of her drink. ‘Is it even strictly speaking a crime to put a stolen item _back_?’

Bow looked crestfallen. ‘Sea Hawk understood when I explained it to him,’ he said, with great dignity.

‘I think Bow has a point,’ Glimmer said, shading her eyes against the morning sun. ‘I could have done without the stress that morning—poor Perfuma was about ready to come apart—but, if you think about it, wouldn’t it be better if _all_ theft was motivated by, what shall we call it, a sense of the aesthetic, rather than a desire for profit?’

Adora, who had heard the same debate repeated at least half a dozen times over the weeks, was only paying half attention. Instead she watched the sea. She’d never seen the sea before—the year before, with the weather locked in a perpetual dimness, she’d been too shy to insist on a trip.

It was both more and less impressive than she’d expected. Less, because it was nothing more than a greyish-blue expanse, like a particularly flat field; more, because it did not _stop_ but faded away into a distance that quickly became meaningless. The feeling was not unlike trying to grasp the quantity of grains of sand that made up the beach.

‘I had a pearl necklace stolen the other week,’ Mermista mused. ‘I suppose I wouldn’t mind if it turned up again.’

Bow gasped. ‘Someone burgled you?’

‘Or I lost it. Whatever.’

Glimmer, who was looking increasingly bored, clapped her hands. ‘I think I’m ready for some bathing. Adora? Mermista?’

Adora stood up so fast she nearly knocked her chair over. Mermista, by contrast, did not move. ‘Ugh. What’s the point? Come fetch me when you want to _swim_.’

‘Suit yourself. Come on, Adora.’

‘I thought Salineas was on the coast,’ Adora said once they were out of earshot. ‘Does Mermista not like the sea?’

‘She does. But they have different standards up in Scotland. The first time she saw a bathing machine she thought someone was pulling her leg.’

Privately, Adora thought that was not an unreasonable reaction to have. The beach was littered with the things: squat boxes on rails, like carriages, only these were destined to traverse the same stretch of sand over and over, from the middle of the beach down into the water proper. Each had a little steam engine at the top of the rails, connected to the bathing machine by a cable. Adora had never seen such an engine before. She examined theirs with interest as Glimmer climbed up into the bathing machine, but the inner workings were hidden behind a featureless metal plate that bore nothing but the name of its creator: _Entrapta_.

‘Are you coming?’

Adora shook herself and followed Glimmer up. It really was like a carriage—a little roomier perhaps, with shelves built into the sides in place of windows, but close enough that it didn’t feel unusual.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Adora said as Glimmer pulled garments out of the bag she’d brought with her. They were huge, dark, bulky dresses, designed to cover every last inch of their wearer’s skin. ‘I thought we’d just go in our underthings.’

Glimmer’s eyes widened. ‘Adora! I thought we’d taught you better than that! Look’—she raised one of the bathing dresses—‘weights in the hem to prevent billowing. Made of flannel to prevent clinging. And perfectly modest.’

‘But I thought that was why you told me to wear…’ Adora trailed off. Glimmer was trying very hard to maintain her scandalised expression. _Too_ hard. ‘You’re pulling _my_ leg,’ she accused.

Glimmer burst out laughing. ‘I’m sorry. I am. I couldn’t help it.’ She stuffed the dresses back in her bag. ‘I suppose it’s possible that, in _theory_ , there exists a lady sufficiently concerned to actually wear one of those. For the rest of us, it’s just a smokescreen.’ She pulled a lever; the bathing machine began to move down the rails into the sea. ‘Come on. Take your clothes off.’

Adora did as she was told. She was wearing shirt and trousers and they weren’t moving particularly quickly. She had plenty of time to stow her clothes safely before the bathing machine entered the sea, and then another few minutes before it came to a shuddering halt.

Glimmer pulled another lever. The doors opened, unfolded, like a bird spreading its wings—only these wings were made of wood and canvas, and when the contraption fell silent, they were spread above the surface of the water like the walls of a tent. They were shielded from view on all sides except straight ahead.

The water only came up to Adora’s waist. She _knew_ , rationally, that they were only a dozen or so yards into the sea, that there was a beach and buildings and people behind them; but the endless line of the horizon filled her field of view, and it was all too easy to forget when faced with the vastness of the sea.

It was like being a child again. She splashed around in the sea and every sensation was new: being buoyed by the waves, the sting of salt water in her eyes and nose, the sand between her toes. She felt free.

Afterwards they sat on the steps of the bathing machine, feet still submerged, letting the sun dry them off. ‘What’s the point of those dresses?’ she asked. ‘Even if we were wearing them, no one can see us.’

Glimmer shrugged. ‘Propriety. Think of it this way—would anyone even try to sneak a peek if they thought we were wearing one of those? What would be the point?’

Adora thought that over. ‘I’ve heard men swim naked. Even the well-bred ones.’

‘Some of them do.’ Glimmer waggled her eyebrows. ‘Take my word for it.’

‘Glimmer!’

‘What? No one’s stopping them from using a bathing machine if they don’t want to be looked at.’

‘But no women.’

Glimmer glanced at her, as if sensing the change of tone. ‘Not _no_ women,’ she said carefully. ‘There are always some who don’t mind causing a bit of a scandal. And there’s—well, you ought to ask Mermista about it. Standards are different up north. Why? Is something bothering you?’

Adora sighed. ‘No. It’s nothing. Shall we go?’

*

It wasn’t nothing—but Adora was having an awfully hard time determining what the _something_ was. What she did know was the following:

First, that she felt like being alone for a time, and so she told Bow and Glimmer she would meet them back at the house Her Grace kept in Margate—

Second, that the beach was too crowded, and so she walked down it a ways, away from the promenade and its lines of bathing machines—

Third, that the solitary figure emerging from the sea up ahead was, without a shadow of a doubt, Catra—

Fourth, that even had Catra been naked, the effect she had on Adora wouldn’t have been as great as seeing her like this, her shift clinging to her like the finest leather glove—

Fifth, that Catra had seen Adora seeing _her_ and had not cared, because a message came for her that evening—

And sixth, that no matter how much her common sense told her otherwise, she did not have it in her to ignore that message.

That was how Adora found herself, at ten o’clock in the evening, outside an inn, still holding the note—(unsigned, but in Catra’s unmistakably spiky handwriting)—that had led her there.

She knew exactly what Catra was playing at. She knew what this was—the other side, the normal side, a lively, cheerful mass of people eating and drinking and _happy_. Catra was trying to make her jealous. She was trying to prove that Adora had made the wrong choice.

Adora went in anyway.

*

And the worst of it was, Adora was having _fun_.

‘Come on, Adora!’ Scorpia said some time after their second round of drinks. ‘You knew Catra when you were children. I bet you can tell me _all_ the embarrassing stories.’

Catra, whose expression had been growing more satisfied with every passing minute, suddenly sat bolt upright. ‘Now wait a minute—’

‘Let me think,’ Adora drawled, and it felt so _good_ to flip the script for once, to watch Catra fidget beneath her gaze. She snapped her fingers. ‘I know. Has Catra told you she doesn’t bleed?’

Catra’s tail twitched in agitation. Scorpia glanced between the two of them. ‘But I saw her cut herself just the other week.’

‘No, I mean she doesn’t _bleed_.’

Adora grinned as realisation spread across Scorpia’s face. ‘All those times you commiserated with me?’ Scorpia said, injured. ‘Every time you bemoaned the tyranny of anatomy with me? It was all _fake_?’

Catra crossed her arms. ‘What was I supposed to do? Apologise that my body doesn’t try to _exsanguinate_ itself every month?’ She scoffed. ‘See if I try to be sympathetic again.’

Adora took a sip—gin, sweeter than she was used to—and reached out to flick one of Catra’s ears. ‘Benefit of these, I expect. You should have seen her at the time, though. _She_ was jealous of _me_.’

Catra pushed her chair back. ‘I’m getting a drink,’ she announced and made her way towards the bar.

‘She nearly took my claw off the one time I tried to touch her ears,’ Scorpia said cheerfully.

If there was one thing high society had taught Adora, it was that people _always_ meant more than they said. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning nothing. Do you know why she invited you here tonight?’

‘I have some idea.’

‘Good.’ Scorpia leaned forward. ‘Then you’ll forgive me for telling you to stop playing around.’

Adora blinked. ‘What?’

‘Catra’s fragile. I won’t have you hurting her.’

‘ _Fragile?_ ’

‘I won’t have it,’ she repeated.

Adora opened her mouth. A dozen rejoinders jostled for position, not least of all the fact that if _anyone_ was playing around with _anyone_ , it was Catra. Then she paused. Every piece of evidence she had told her that Scorpia was a good person—even now, her tone was still perfectly friendly. She wasn’t trying to manipulate Adora. She was stating a fact as she saw it.

The change in perspective was slightly dizzying.

‘Lady Scorpia,’ Adora began.

‘Just Scorpia.’

‘All right. Scorpia.’ Adora paused. ‘Why are you with the Frightley Set? Forgive me, but you don’t seem the type.’

‘Because I don’t have a chip on my shoulder?’ Scorpia laughed. ‘You don’t know anything about the Earl. Or why he picks the people he does. Truthfully? I don’t know much more.’ She met Adora’s gaze. ‘What I do know is that none of them have had an easy route through life. They need someone to look out for them. Catra more than most. Speak of the devil!’ she added, loudly.

Catra was winding her way back to her seat. She shot Scorpia a confused look. ‘What did I miss?’

‘Nothing,’ Scorpia said, with boisterously good cheer. ‘But I think I’ll turn in. Don’t stay up too late!’

Adora wasn’t quite prepared to be left alone with Catra, but so she found herself. They said nothing for a time, watching Scorpia settle her bill and make her way upstairs. Then Adora said, ‘So you’re with the Earl of Frightley.’

Catra looked puzzled. ‘You’re only now figuring that out?’

‘No, of course not, I was just…’

Catra smirked. ‘Deluding yourself?’

‘Attempting to follow the _letter_ of Her Grace’s rules.’

Catra’s face darkened. ‘She told you not to see me?’

‘Catra, I’m not even sure she knows who you are. She told me to be careful around the Frightley Set, that’s all.’

‘Of course,’ Catra said bitterly. ‘Her Grace’s _rules_. It would make sense, wouldn’t it?’

‘Catra…’

‘No, I understand. It’s your _new life_. You’ve hardly been careful around me, though, have you?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means,’ Catra said, ‘that no one here has _any_ idea who you are. None of them care about your goddamn rules.’

Adora’s mouth was suddenly dry. ‘If you want to say something, say it.’

Catra stared at her a moment longer. Then she said, ‘I’ll show you.’

She stood up. For a moment the image of her, wet and dripping, flashed through Adora’s mind, but Catra was wearing something else now—was wearing something very similar, in fact, to the outfit Adora had first seen her in, all those months ago at Perfuma’s ball, halfway between pirate and revolutionary, and how had she not noticed that until now?

Catra took a step towards her.

‘What—what are you doing?’

‘Proving a point,’ Catra said matter-of-factly, and before Adora could begin to object Catra had straddled her, right there in the open. The chair tipped back under her weight and for a moment Adora thought it would unbalance—but the wall was right behind her, a solid anchor in an otherwise entirely fluid situation.

Catra shifted in her lap. Her weight was warm, familiar, and Adora found her thoughts wandering—but even now, she discovered she lacked the boldness for those _particular_ imaginings. ‘What point?’ she said hoarsely.

‘Is anyone watching?’ Catra seemed entirely unconcerned, as if this was just another evening, just another thing she did when she felt like it—and maybe it was.

Adora found it oddly difficult to answer the question. Her gaze refused to focus on the taproom beyond, sliding up instead, up to where Catra’s mane of hair was haloed by the dim light, to where Catra’s eyes shone down at her. ‘Of course people are watching,’ she managed to get out. ‘We’re in _public_.’

Catra’s smile showed teeth. ‘Not what I meant.’ Then she did something—a shift of the hips, just so—and her whole body pressed into Adora’s for one single, delicious moment. ‘Does anyone _care_?’

Adora’s mind had gone quite blank. In some sense there was nothing strange about it: she knew Catra’s body. They had shared a bed for long enough, shed clothes in front of each other for long enough, that there was nothing truly _new_ in the sensation of Catra grinding against her, slowly but rhythmically.

But that had been innocent—or, as they’d grown older, innocent enough to be papered over with the plausible deniability of friendship. _This_ was as far from innocent as Adora had ever dared to venture, no matter how infuriatingly detached Catra’s expression remained.

‘Well?’

Adora rallied, focusing past the drumbeat of her heart, the heat washing over her, and cast her gaze over the taproom. Across from them, two men were entwined in an embrace even more compromising—how had she not noticed them earlier? And there, as if acting out Catra’s point for her, a young woman beckoned over her shoulder. Adora followed her gaze back to the pair of men and watched, dumbstruck, as all three of them ascended the stairs together.

No one spared her and Catra so much as a glance.

‘No?’ Catra caught one of Adora’s hands and pinned it to her side, like a cat idly playing with a mouse. She bent down to whisper in Adora’s ear. ‘What if I do this?’

And then her lips were on Adora’s neck, teeth nipping at her skin, and Adora closed her eyes—but it was still too much; her clothing felt too tight, as if the heat inside her was desperate to escape, and when Catra’s tongue found her pulse fluttering beneath her skin, Adora stopped thinking for one critical moment; and the sound she made then couldn’t be described as anything but a moan.

Catra froze. Then she sat up, eyes wide, released Adora’s arm to cup her face instead and—‘ _Oh_ ,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, you’re—beautiful.’

And Adora knew them for the sincerest words Catra had spoken that evening, because now she recognised the truth of it—Catra _had_ just been proving a point, _had_ just been playing a part, and Adora had been the one who’d pushed them out into deeper, farther waters.

The silence between them was suddenly filled by the soft vibration of Catra purring. Adora felt odd—off-balance, vulnerable, as if she’d misjudged a step and left herself open to her opponent’s thrust. Catra’s thumb brushed against her lips. She shivered in the heat.

‘Adora, I—’

But that was a mistake, words were a mistake, and suddenly Adora’s senses came flooding back to her, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, the noise from the rest of the taproom washing over like a cold flood, and _what on Earth was she doing_? ‘I have to—I can’t—’

Catra was staring at her. The bare honesty of the last few moments was gone, replaced not by her earlier disinterest but by such an intensity it made Adora feel naked. ‘Tell me to get off, and I’ll get off.’ Her voice was quiet, but Adora hung to every word like a castaway to a piece of flotsam. ‘Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll never touch you again.’

‘Get off,’ Adora whispered.

Catra obeyed instantly, retreating back to her own chair. ‘And?’

Adora swallowed. She felt cold. ‘I can’t.’

Catra nodded. ‘I understand.’ She was staring at the table, fiddling with a pair of burnt-out matchsticks.

‘I’m sorry, I—I have to go.’

‘I know.’

‘Thank you,’ Adora said, and even she couldn’t say what, exactly, for—and then she was gone, out into the night, and it wasn’t until she was halfway home that she realised, for Catra to have let her go as quietly as she had, that the evening must have had nearly as great an impact on her as it had had on Adora herself.

*

‘Adora?’

Adora froze.

‘Are you all right?’

She turned. Angella stood at the threshold of her study, fully dressed, the faint flicker of candle-light leaking through behind her.

Afterwards Adora explained her actions to herself in the following way. First, that she was in her night-gown and the hour was late; no matter that this was her home, too, these facts conspired to portray her errand as an illicit one. Second, that for all Angella’s kindness, she was in a position of authority over Adora, and therefore deserved an explanation. Third, that Adora had no time to think of anything but the truth.

‘I think I’m in love,’ she blurted.

Angella blinked, ever so slightly faster than was normal. ‘I see,’ she said gravely, stepping out onto the landing proper and closing the door behind her. ‘There are… concessions that can be made, you know. For women in your position.’

Confusion kept Adora’s embarrassment at bay. ‘What?’

‘Many a noblewoman has found… _platonic_ love with her designated husband, while keeping the true subject of her affections in her life. Discreetly, of course, but it is hardly unheard of.’

It took Adora a few moments to decipher Angella’s meaning. _Then_ the embarrassment hit, the rush of heat warming her from her chest up to the roots of her hair. ‘I’m not—I mean—why would you think that—’

Angella raised her eyebrows. ‘Because it is the middle of the night and I find you skulking outside my daughter’s chambers in your night-gown.’

Adora wanted to recede into the wall. Angella had arrived at the correct conclusion, but the assumption she’d made to get there was entirely incorrect. Wasn’t it? ‘I appreciate the thought, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m not…’

‘No?’

Adora cleared her throat. ‘I was just on my way to seek Glimmer’s advice. About my… situation.’

‘My mistake, then.’ The Duchess of Brightmoon was never an easy woman to read, but in that moment the amusement rolled off her in waves. ‘Carry on. And do try to sleep _before_ the sun comes up.’

‘Angella?’

‘Yes, dear?’

Adora swallowed. ‘You weren’t going to stop me,’ she said. ‘Even though you thought…’

Angella surveyed her a moment longer. ‘Like I said,’ she said evenly. ‘Concessions can be made.’

*

‘Do you want her?’

They were sprawled on the vastness of Glimmer’s bed, Adora propped up against the headboard, Glimmer on her back, arms crossed under her head. The sun was not, yet, up.

‘How do you mean?’

Glimmer shrugged. ‘In your life. In your bed.’

‘ _Glimmer!’_

‘Oh, don’t act so scandalised, I’m just asking.’ She tilted her head. ‘Would it be so bad if you did?’

Adora hid her burning face in her hands. ‘Even if I did, I can’t. So it doesn’t matter.’

Glimmer was quiet for a long time. Then she said, ‘Would you like to know what I really think?’

‘Always.’

‘What I think is that it can’t have been easy for you, being thrust into the world of high society. It’s not always easy for me, and I grew up with it.’ Glimmer hummed thoughtfully. ‘And you’ve done a good job learning the rules. But often it’s not the rules that are the problem. It’s the exceptions. Do you see?’

‘No,’ Adora said, quite honestly.

Glimmer laughed. ‘What I mean is that you need to start being honest with yourself. Forget what you think you can or can’t do. The rules are irrelevant until you know what you _want_.’

Adora sat up, reached behind her for a pillow, and punched it. It felt good. ‘What if I don’t know what I want?’

‘I’ll help.’ Glimmer rolled onto her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. ‘Do you want to kiss her?’

Adora groaned. ‘Do you _have_ to start with that?’

‘It’s more fun for me that way. Or would you prefer the other question?’

Adora took a calming breath, thankful that the moonlight streaming in through the window wasn’t bright enough to show the almost permanent blush on her face.

‘Forget the rules,’ Glimmer said gently.

Adora let her breath out. ‘When I was with her tonight— _Christ,_ yes, I wanted to kiss her.’ And then she paused. But the world did not end. Glimmer did not denounce her. She felt, on the balance, no different. ‘Other times she’s so infuriating I’d sooner call her out.’

‘That’s the impression I’ve been getting. What about now? When she’s not here?’

Adora picked at the stitching on the pillowcase. ‘It’s like I’m drawn to her,’ she began. ‘Every time I see her, I _know_ she’s going to provoke me. And I let her. And—’ She made a noise of frustration. ‘I don’t know what I want to say.’

‘You miss her.’

‘Yes. I do.’ Adora shot Glimmer a sideways glance. ‘Weren’t you telling me _not_ to let her provoke me just the other month?’

‘That was different,’ Glimmer said airily. ‘I didn’t realise you liked it then.’

Adora was halfway to a denial before she forced herself to stop. It wasn’t—it wasn’t _necessarily_ wrong. ‘It’s like this. The way I feel about her is… huge and overwhelming and exhilarating. And a little frightening. And the way I feel about _you_ is small and soft and easy. Comfortable. And I don’t know which of those—’ Adora broke off, then, because Glimmer was giving her a curious look, and all at once she realised what she’d just said. ‘That is—’

‘It’s all right. Finish what you were going to say?’

‘And I don’t know which of those is love,’ Adora whispered. Then she fell back onto the bed and tried to will herself out of existence.

Glimmer wouldn’t let her. She followed her up the bed. ‘Adora,’ she said once their faces were level. ‘Would you like _me_ to kiss you?’

Adora’s heart skipped a beat. She closed her eyes. Then she nodded.

Glimmer’s touch was nothing like Catra’s. Where Catra had left trails of fire, Glimmer was cool and soothing, her fingers gentle as they tilted Adora’s face just so, and at the first touch of her lips Adora felt like all her stress was being drained away. She made an encouraging noise. Glimmer smiled against her mouth and then they were kissing in earnest and Adora banished all second thoughts as Glimmer’s tongue flicked out to meet hers.

Kissing Glimmer was like nothing she'd ever experienced—and yet like a natural extension of every quiet evening they'd ever spent together.

They pulled apart and for a moment they just watched each other. Glimmer’s breath was coming a little faster; Adora’s night-gown had slipped off one shoulder. She didn’t bother pulling it back up. Then she said, 'That was love.'

‘Of course,’ Glimmer said easily. ‘I love you, Adora. You knew that, right?’

‘You mean... Not like a sister.’

Glimmer snorted. ‘I should hope not.’

Adora thought the matter over. She hadn’t known that, not really, but nor was she surprised to hear it. Did that mean she had known, in some sense? It was confusing. ‘The good news is your mother already thinks we’ve been doing this.’

Glimmer raised her eyebrows. ‘She thinks _what?_ ’

‘I ran into her on my way here. I was, um, confused. And she jumped to conclusions.’ Adora cleared her throat. ‘Correct ones, evidently.’

‘Well, I can handle Mother. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Maybe it’s for the best she thinks that. It’s better than the alternative. And—and anyway, with Catra, that’s—that’s just lust.’

Glimmer’s hand ghosted up her side and brushed past her bare shoulder. ‘You’re not giving yourself _nearly_ enough credit if you thought there was no lust in that kiss.’

That was the sort of statement that would have had Adora stammering not hours earlier. Now she processed it with a hard-earned equanimity. ‘You mean it might not _just_ be lust.’

‘I mean that you need to give yourself permission to love her. It’s all right if you love me. It’s all right if you love her. And no matter how much it makes you blush, it really is all right if you just want her in your bed. But you won’t _know_ unless you stop being scared of the answer.’

‘How did you get to be so wise?’ Adora said, more than a little plaintively.

Glimmer’s smile turned impish. ‘Did it seem like that was the first time I’d kissed someone?’

Despite herself, Adora giggled. ‘You’ve been holding out.’

‘I’ll tell you all about it some time if you stop changing the subject.’

Adora groaned. ‘It’s just—how can I feel what I feel for her if I feel what I feel for you? It doesn’t _work_ like that.’

‘Adora.’

‘What?’

Glimmer leaned in and kissed her again, soft and brief, and all Adora’s protestations died on her lips. ‘You’re still thinking about rules,’ Glimmer whispered. ‘What do you _want?_ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This chapter got slightly out of hand, and I have quite a few thoughts to share. Bear with me!
> 
> 1\. I think the Catradora scene ranks in the top five sex scenes I've ever written and it's not even a sex scene.  
> 2\. I briefly considered an actual whodunnit chapter, but I decided it would break up the flow of the story too much. (Read: I wanted to get to the kissing. Besides, there's only so much mileage I can get out of "Adora accuses Catra of wrongdoing for little reason".) Apologies to anyone who was looking forward to that and felt faked out. :p  
> 3\. Speaking of kissing - huzzah! It only took, like, 19k words! And, because I have no desire to tease y'all more than I have to, I can exclusively reveal that next chapter will have the first catradora kiss, too!  
> 4\. I didn't know bathing machines existed until I did the research for this chapter and I am MYSTIFIED at the fact that I have never seen them in a period film. Like, excuse me? (No one and nothing, on the other hand, will ever convince me that bathing dresses weren't a massive practical joke perpetrated by regency women at the expense of men.)
> 
> And, finally, I've been meaning to say: I've never really had the experience of writing a longer, chaptered fic before, and it's been so, so nice seeing y'all react to every new chapter. It really feels like I'm getting to know you all a bit - and it's so incredibly motivating! I've never written anything at remotely this speed before. Thank you all for reading, and I dearly hope I can keep it up through the end of this fic <3


	8. Catra—March 1811

_In which Catra learns that boys are people too_

Over the years, the boys’ school that adjoined Miss Weaver’s attained near-mythical status among the girls of their dorm.

Partly it was a matter of proximity—the buildings were so close as to practically share a courtyard. The combination of _near_ yet _separate_ was heady. Partly it was because one of the first rules every student at Miss Weaver’s learnt was that there was to be no _unauthorised mingling_.

Whatever the case, the legend that began with the tale of Rogelio the lizard boy grew into something bigger. Despite Catra’s lack of interest in such things, it was hard not to be aware of the black market in romance taking place under her nose—and not the prim, proper stories the school library was stocked with, but the illicit, forbidden ones, whose content Catra could only vaguely imagine. Everyone had heard a story about sneaking out to meet with the boys, of trysts in darkened corners, even if no one could say, definitively, who the subjects of those stories were.

When it was announced, therefore, that the day for _authorised_ mingling had finally come, the reaction from all quarters was one of unmitigated excitement.

All quarters but one.

Privately Catra thought the whole concept was stupid. Officially, the opportunity was about putting into practice what Miss Weaver taught in etiquette class, but etiquette class was stupid, too. Miss Weaver’s only _pretended_ to be a school for the upper classes. In reality, for every girl who might one day find a use for the etiquette lessons, there was someone like Catra and Adora: parentless and lost.

(Catra never worried about what would come after. They wouldn’t be lost so long as they had each other.)

‘You’re such a child,’ Lonnie said when Catra voiced those thoughts. ‘You’ll understand when you’re a woman.’

Catra, who was probably a teenager by then and who periodically snuck out of the school to cheat people at cards, was increasingly finding that the definition of _child_ had suddenly changed. That only added to her irritation.

‘Come on,’ she told Adora later. ‘Let’s go climb the roof. I want to be alone.’

Adora gave her an odd look. ‘We can’t. We have the mingling, remember?’

‘It’s _optional_.’ How did Adora not know that?

‘I know that. But I want to go.’

Catra stared at her. ‘What?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No!’

Adora paused. ‘Why not?’

‘I don’t _care_ about the correct way to curtsey.’

‘Obviously. Neither do I. But aren’t you at all curious?’

‘No.’

Adora sighed. ‘Well, I am. Are you sure you don’t want to go?’

Catra willed herself not to cry. She’d been so certain that Adora would see things her way she hadn’t even bothered talking to her about them—and now Adora didn’t even seem to realise what she was doing. ‘I’m sure,’ Catra said, and waved away Adora’s concerned hovering. ‘Just go.’

(Which is how she found herself on the roof, alone, watching Adora make new friends without her.)

Afterwards she endured Adora’s idle chatter before bed— _‘I mostly talked to this one boy, Kyle. He’s friends with Rogelio, actually, they both seemed a bit shy, maybe like the other boys didn’t like them? I don’t know, but they were friendly, and I think they were grateful that I was there’—_ until, finally, she couldn’t bear it any longer and she snapped, ‘Shut _up_ ,’ and Adora shut up.

So it went. Every Friday Catra would wake up surly and defensive, and in the afternoon she’d endure the hour’s solitude in the dormitory while the others mingled, and in the evening she’d try and ignore Adora’s summary.

Adora put up with her for three weeks. On the fourth Friday she broke.

‘All right. What on _Earth_ is going on with you, Catra?’

They were sitting on their bed. The others had already left. ‘You’re going to be late,’ Catra muttered without looking up.

‘It’s optional.’

That, at least, gave Catra pause. ‘Nothing’s going on with _me_.’

Adora sighed in frustration. ‘Is this about my—my menarche again?’

 _There_ was a word Catra hated, not least of all because it had meant waking up next to Adora covered in blood. The moment before she’d registered the look on Adora’s face as embarrassment, not pain—before the part of her brain that knew about things like anatomy had caught up—had been the single most terrifying moment of her life. ‘Maybe. A bit.’

‘I know everyone’s been a bit weird about it lately, but I’m sure you’ll get yours soon—’

‘It’s not that,’ Catra snapped.

‘Then what _is_ it?’ Adora didn’t look annoyed. Just concerned. ‘Catra, _please_ tell me what’s wrong. It hurts seeing you like this.’

It was hard. Catra had harboured this strange resentment, this anxiety, had hidden it away and nurtured it. Talking about it now was _hard_. ‘Lonnie says it means you’re a woman now.’

Adora’s brow furrowed. ‘Since when do you care what Lonnie says?’

‘Since she’s right, apparently!’

‘What?’

‘You’re going to—you’re going to forget about me.’

There it was. And the fact of the matter was, Catra knew even as she said it how ridiculous it sounded. She _knew_ it was irrational. That didn’t make it less real.

Adora blinked at her. ‘ _What?_ ’ she repeated.

Catra forged ahead. ‘If you’re a woman now that means you’re—you’re going to be just like all the others. You’ll start talking about boys all the time and then you’ll want to kiss them, and—and dance the waltz with them—’ Catra broke off and glared at Adora. ‘You’re _laughing_ at me.’

‘I’m sorry!’ said Adora, who was indeed attempting to hold back laughter. ‘I just—what does the waltz have to do with anything?’

Catra examined the threads of their blanket with great interest. ‘Weren’t you paying attention in etiquette class? Anyone can dance the quadrille, but the waltz means you want to court them. And you’re a girl, so you’ll want to court boys.’

‘I’m shocked _you_ were paying attention.’

Catra—who would never admit just to what extent the anxiety had been preying on her—shrugged. ‘What about Kyle?’

Adora tilted her head. ‘What about him?’

‘You mention him a lot.’

‘I like him. He’s nice. And—’

‘See!’

‘ _And_ I have no desire to kiss him.’

‘Yet.’

‘And I suspect he has no desire to kiss me.’

Catra squinted at her. ‘How do you know that? Did you ask him?’

‘No,’ Adora said airily. ‘Let’s just say, if he was going to ask someone to waltz, I think it would be Rogelio.’

Catra paused. ‘Really?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Oh.’

They sat in silence for a while. Catra tried to avoid Adora’s gaze. Adora nudged her with her foot. ‘You know that’s all nonsense, anyway, right? About the dancing?’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘Miss Weaver has to teach etiquette. All schools do if they want rich students. It doesn’t mean it’s ever going to be relevant for us.’

‘I _know_ that.’

‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’ Adora giggled. ‘Unless you’re secretly a princess.’

Catra made a face. ‘Can you imagine having to follow all those rules?’

‘No. But then, it’s hard to imagine you following _any_ rules.’

‘If they wanted me to follow the rules, they should make them less stupid.’ Catra inched her way up the bed and insinuated herself into Adora’s lap. Nothing happened. She twitched both ears.

(Catra never _asked_ Adora to stroke her. That would have been embarrassing. But nor did she complain when Adora took the hint. ‘You’re very demanding,’ Adora whispered. ‘You’re lucky I’m such a good friend.’)

Adora’s hand in her hair was, slowly, calming her down. It was a frustrating feeling, this anxiety. Catra _hated_ not being able to control how she felt. ‘I just don’t want you to forget about me,’ she said presently.

‘I’m not going to forget about you. They’re just _boys_. Not a different species—’

‘Some of them are.’

‘Right. I meant they’re still just _people_. I’m not going to change just because I talk to them sometimes. Come with me next time. You’ll see.’

Catra sighed. ‘I know. It’s just—the way the other girls talk…’

‘I didn’t realise you put so much stock in their opinions.’

‘I _don’t_ ,’ Catra muttered. ‘Except—except when it’s important.’

Adora was looking down at her thoughtfully. ‘You’re important to me, too. What can I do to reassure you?’

That was the question, wasn’t it? Nothing Adora had done had actually given Catra cause for concern. It was all a stupid, irrational worry. How was Adora meant to help? And yet she had to say _something_. She’d dragged Adora into this conversation; she had to offer her a way out, or it wouldn’t be fair.

And that’s why she said, ‘Kiss me.’

Without missing a beat, Adora leaned down and pressed her lips to Catra’s. It was over so fast Catra barely had time to register the sensation. Adora smiled at her. ‘Better?’

Catra nodded mutely.

‘I can do better than that. One day, I promise, I’ll dance the waltz with you. To hell with rules.’

 _Hell_. That got a giggle out of Catra. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Catra thought about it. ‘Okay,’ she said.

Then she let herself relax into Adora’s touch, let herself be stroked, smoothed over, pampered. It was a humiliating thought, in some ways. She’d lost track of how many brawls she’d started because someone had tried to touch her without permission. She was supposed to be strong and independent—but she could be those things because she had Adora, had someone who could see her at her most vulnerable and still make her feel safe.

Catra yawned. She was halfway to sleep—the whole world was going fuzzy, every sensation blurred as if vibrating just slightly off-balance, and that feeling spread through her, shivered across her skin in time with her breathing. It felt like a cocoon, a layer of near-silent sound between her and anything that might want to interfere with her peace.

‘Catra,’ Adora said softly, her voice tinged with wonder. ‘Are you _purring_?’

Catra’s eyes snapped open. The haze of drowsiness swept away, and with it that all-encompassing rumbling. ‘No,’ she said automatically.

‘You _were_.’ Adora grinned. ‘Did you know you could do that?’

What was she supposed to say? _No, I didn’t, I suppose I’ve never felt that comfortable before?_ ‘I was _not_. I was just… cold. I was shivering.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Adora’s grin was only getting wider. ‘You were cute.’

Catra’s cheeks felt hot. ‘Don’t call me that.’

‘What? _Cute?_ ’

‘ _Adora._ ’

‘I’m sorry,’ Adora said, not sounding remotely sorry. ‘You’re so confident most of the time. I have to tease you when I get the opportunity.’

 _Confident_. She liked that. Mollified, Catra settled back down against Adora. ‘Keep scratching,’ she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I lied. I have a desire to tease you /slightly/ more than I have to. But next chapter is it! For real this time. :D (And while this chapter might SEEM like just an excuse to write some fluff, it does actually set a few things up.)
> 
> (Just a heads up: I'm going to be away until early next week. Unlikely to update until then.)


	9. Adora—August 1817

_In which Adora looks into the sun_

Nothing changed.

Adora had read her fair share of romances. She’d read romances set in country manors and Ottoman palaces; in Venice and Verona and Messina; she’d read romances fresh from the colonies and from farther afield, from the far east and beyond. Once—Bow’s influence—she’d read a romance set on a pirate ship.

And for all their differences, those stories shared one feature: a turning point, a moment in which love was revealed and feelings admitted, a moment in which everything changed. Either the body of romantic literature was wrong—or at least incomplete—or what existed between her and Glimmer was not a _romance_.

Because nothing changed. They did the same things they’d always done, spoke about the same things they’d always spoken of. If Glimmer was occasionally more affectionate than she had been—if she touched Adora’s hand more often, kissed her cheek more freely—it was hard to say whether that was truly so, or whether Adora was simply more primed to notice.

One day in early August, she simply asked.

Glimmer was in her room, trying on a new dress she’d commissioned. ‘Is it too much?’ she said, tugging meditatively on the stiff cloth that rose from her shoulders like a pair of wings.

‘It’s a masquerade,’ Adora said. ‘I thought _too much_ was the point.’

Glimmer grinned. ‘That’s the spirit. What does it remind you of?’

Adora looked her up and down. The colours were pale green trimmed with purple, but it was the design that drew the eye: almost like a sculpture. Between the wings with their scale-like pattern and the head-piece that bobbed above Glimmer’s hair like a pair of antennae, the whole thing gave the impression of—‘A butterfly.’

‘I asked for a moth.’ Glimmer paused. ‘Close enough.’

And that was when the words came spilling out of Adora because she knew, on one level, the _perfect_ time would never come, and in its place, this time—this time, with Glimmer wrapped in an absurd confection of moth-wings—was as good as any.

‘You’re lucky,’ Glimmer said once Adora was done. ‘At least you had some variety. You know what romance means for me?’

‘What?’

‘It means finding someone who ticks all the boxes.’ She glanced at Adora. ‘A man, of course. Properly titled. Preferably rich. Pleasant if possible. It means leafing through Debrett’s to make sure he is who he says he is. It means constructing the perfect courtship, the perfect progression, and it means marriage.’

‘I thought you liked Debrett’s.’

Glimmer snorted. ‘I do. I think it’s interesting the same way a dictionary is interesting. And yes, I was born into this life, and I do like it, but I’ve _always_ been aware that it’s… not entirely real. The very first stories my mother ever told me were war stories, did you know? _That_ was real. It put things in perspective.’

‘Angella told you _war stories_? When you were young?’

‘Well. Edited ones. I wish you’d known her back then, Adora, she was… different. Intense. In a good way.’

Adora, who found the Duchess of Brightmoon plenty intense as it was, nodded politely. ‘What does that have to do with, you know…’ She still found it difficult to put into words. ‘Us?’

‘I think of it this way. Either I believe what I’m told and _nothing_ outside that box is romance. Or else _anything_ can be, because if I’m rejecting _that_ box, why shouldn’t I reject all the other boxes I could come up with?’

‘But how do you _know_? What is and what isn’t?’

Glimmer shrugged. ‘Does it matter? It’s quite freeing, from my perspective. No matter what I do, I know that there’s only one route I can take that my peers would consider romantic. So anything else I want to do… who cares what I call it?’

‘You could elope.’

‘What?’

‘Surely eloping with a dashing but tragically un-titled young man would also count as romantic.’

Glimmer quirked a smile. ‘All right. It probably would. But then they wouldn’t be my peers any more, so the point stands.’

Adora lay back, stared at the ceiling, and mulled things over. Glimmer’s answer wasn’t an answer at all, not really. It was the opposite—not an answer but a rejection of the question. Was that enough? (And the thought: what she and Catra had once shared had been nameless, and it had been enough then. If it wasn’t enough _now_ , why not?)

She made a frustrated noise. ‘I wish life was simpler.’

‘If you think _that’s_ complicated, wait until you hear my next question.’

‘Oh?’

Glimmer grinned. ‘What are _you_ going to wear?’

*

It wasn’t just any ball.

(‘Wow,’ Bow had said as they’d waited in the entrance hall for Glimmer. ‘Angella’s wearing the Moonstone. That’s how you know it’s not just any ball.’)

To begin with, it was a masquerade ball.

(‘She’s the moon,’ Glimmer had said, rolling her eyes, when Adora asked. ‘Brightmoon, Moonstone, you see? It’s not that I _mind_ our name but, Christ, she could at least _try_ to do something new.’

Adora had never seen Her Grace dressed for a masquerade, and she could see how her dress might be misconstrued as nothing but a particularly extravagant garment in white. The gem, though—that was something else. Luminous, otherworldly, the Moonstone hung around her neck, and it truly was like the night sky made earthly.)

And it was hosted by a princess, which meant a palace—if, admittedly, a borrowed one.

(‘Princess Frosta is only thirteen. She’s spent her entire life in England,’ Bow had said, quietly, as they made their way past the guests thronging the grand staircase. ‘She _could_ go home—the war’s over—but I don’t think she really wants to. Try not to bring it up.’)

Which advice Adora managed to follow for all of one sentence.

(‘Thank you for inviting me, Your Highness,’ she had said, more or less formulaically, as they were paraded past for the requisite introductions. Then her brain performed had performed the sort of cartwheel in which one is reminded of what one must _not_ say, and therefore one immediately says it. ‘I hope you find yourself in a position to return home soon.’

Frosta had given her such a look that Adora suddenly wished her own outfit had heeded the _masque_ part of _masquerade_. ‘I’m sorry!’ she said afterwards, in response to the look Bow gave her. ‘I panicked! You know I’m not good at that kind of thing.’)

Lastly, it was not even the biggest event of the social season.

(‘Watch yourselves,’ Angella said, half a dozen steps from the ballroom doors. ‘Everyone here will be jockeying for an invitation to the Regent’s Ball. This is merely a stepping stone. _We_ are assured an invitation, so long as none of you do anything stupid.’ Her gaze lingered on Adora. ‘But do have fun.’)

And then, finally, they were free.

Adora had been to balls before, but this was something else. The ballrooms were not the usual brightly lit affair—the chandeliers were only patchily populated and the effect was remarkably potent. There were shadows everywhere, dancing and flickering, extenuating the unreality of the masquerade—a simple mask was made something else in the dim light, something inviting or unnerving; a dress like Glimmer’s became taller, stranger, more irresistibly eye-catching. At the centre of each ballroom was a huge pillar sculpted out of ice (where had it come from in the middle of summer, Adora wondered, and at what cost?), reflecting and refracting the light even further.

Her own costume was not a match for Glimmer’s, or even for Bow’s Artemis-inspired hunting get-up. Instead she’d used the masquerade as an excuse to wear something comfortable. _A revolutionary_ , she planned to tell anyone who asked—it was just the sort of tongue-in-cheek jab at their own superiority that the upper classes were fond of. There was a small branch pinned to her lapel in reference to the one with which Desmoulins had harangued the citizens of Paris, but otherwise she could have worn the clothing any other day.

Glimmer’s elbow in her side made her blink. ‘Look.’

Adora didn’t need to ask what she meant. Even from across the room, even at an event where, ostensibly, one’s identity was not meant to be easily given—even there, Catra was instantly recognisable. Adora stood frozen for half a minute. Then she made her decision. She was halfway across the room before Glimmer and Bow caught up, clearing a path before her as if she were a ship cutting an invisible wake through the ocean of people.

There was the niggling feeling that this was precisely the sort of _stupid_ thing Angella had warned her against, but in that moment Adora had had enough of indirectness. ‘A cat? Really?’ she said, coming to a stop in front of Catra. She was dimly aware that the tall, swan-costumed figure to her side was Lady Scorpia, and behind them lurked Kyle and Rogelio—and _they_ nearly gave her pause, transported her back to the day she’d left Miss Weaver’s.

Catra’s drawl interrupted her line of thought. ‘I thought I’d play to my strengths.’

Adora’s eyes traced the lines of Catra’s costume. Not that it was much more a costume than her own—the dress was black but otherwise not particularly noteworthy, if one put aside the scandalously low neckline. (It was with a certain amount of pride that Adora let herself admire Catra’s décolletage. She did not blush.)

The mask, however—the mask was beautiful. Black trimmed with silver, in the Venetian style, asymmetrical across the mouth and framing Catra’s eyes perfectly, topped by two dainty cat ears like prim reflections of the real thing.

‘Will you allow me the honour of this dance?’ Adora said, her voice perfectly courteous.

Catra’s half-smile slipped and reappeared so quickly Adora wasn’t sure if she’d imagined its absence. ‘Alas,’ Catra said, and her voice made a mockery of the polite words, ‘we are only two, and I fear Kyle and Rogelio are too busy with each other.’

Adora glanced over Catra’s shoulder. Kyle and Rogelio were, indeed, engrossed in each other—then Kyle met her eyes, and the uncertain smile he offered was all the encouragement Adora needed to pursue the matter further. ‘Lady Scorpia?’

‘Delighted!’

‘And I shall make four,’ Glimmer declared, and Adora had almost forgotten she was there, but the balance seemed right: her and Glimmer, Catra and Scorpia. ‘If you please?’ She offered Scorpia her arm, and that meant—

That meant she had Catra on _her_ arm; and they made their way towards the dance floor; and the previous dance was just concluding, there was no time to think, or plan, and then they were spinning out into the open, just one couple amidst dozens of others, and Catra’s touch as they circled each other was light but firm, her eyes smiling at her from behind the mask. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Catra said, just loud enough to be heard above the music. ‘So many times we’ve run into each other, and never once have you asked me to dance.’

Adora’s mouth was dry. Her confidence was waning. ‘You can drop the polite act.’

Her muscles knew the steps better than her brain did, because a moment later Catra had spun into her embrace, her back up against Adora, and Adora didn’t break stride even as her heart threatened to outdo the rhythm of the music. ‘Is that right?’ Catra tilted her head back just so, exposing the skin of her neck, and her whisper carried straight to Adora’s ear. ‘You want me rough, do you?’

‘I want you real,’ Adora said, and the words were out before she could even consider what they meant.

Catra’s response was cut short by the first exchange of partners, and suddenly it was Glimmer leading her through the steps, and Adora felt her pulse slow down. ‘Don’t let her get to you unless you _want_ her to get to you,’ Glimmer said when they came together. ‘Remember what we talked about.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Adora could see Catra and Scorpia engaged in the same steps, the same closeness. ‘Thank you for doing this for me.’

Glimmer laughed. ‘Didn’t I say? I like Scorpia. This is fun.’ She leaned a little closer. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered.

Then the music changed and it was Catra again, Catra leaving tingling lines down Adora’s arms where she touched her, Catra’s accursed smile tracking her every reaction. ‘Aren’t there things you want to ask me?’ she said. ‘That’s what this is for, isn’t it? Gossip. _Secrets_.’

She said that last word with such relish it nearly made Adora shiver. ‘What were you doing in Scorpia’s room that night?’ It had been on her mind, Adora realised, just below the surface, where she hadn’t quite been aware of it, and perhaps—

But no. If Catra was thrown off by the question, her reaction was disappointingly assured. ‘I was wondering when you’d ask me that. Do you even know what you want to hear?’

‘Don’t dodge the question.’

‘I’m not. I’m just curious. Would you rather think I was in there planning the theft, or… ?’

‘ _Catra._ ’

This time it was Catra leading, and therefore it was Adora who ended up with her back to her, not seeing her but feeling her everywhere, in the guiding touch of her hand on Adora’s shoulder, in the warmth of her breath as she spoke, all but inaudibly: ‘I still have my virginity. That’s what you really want to know, right?’

This time Adora did shiver. ‘That’s not—I wanted to know if… if you were…’

‘If I was the thief? Of course. Very noble of you to represent Lady Perfuma’s interests like that. I’m sure’—and Catra’s voice dropped an octave—‘that you have _no_ other reason for asking about it.’

She pressed the length of her body against Adora, far closer than the dance dictated, for two brief moments. Then they separated.

‘I’m letting her get to me,’ Adora said without preamble.

‘I can see that.’ Glimmer’s smile was not, in fact, _entirely_ dissimilar to Catra’s. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this flustered.’

Then, quietly: ‘I think I want her to.’

 _This_ smile was entirely different. It was calm and encouraging. ‘One more swap,’ Glimmer said. ‘You can do it.’

The last portion of the dance unfolded in silence. The dim light enhanced her senses—or so Adora told herself, because her skin had never been so sensitive, so acute to every eddy as Catra flowed around her; her eyes had never picked out the contrast between glowing, light-brown skin and black fabric with such interest.

And when it was over, when Catra smiled at her and raised her hand and brushed her fingers against Adora’s cheeks, just once, just briefly, and said—‘Thank you for the dance—’

—Adora felt like she was sixteen again, and she knew.

She watched Catra leave the ballroom.

‘Go,’ Glimmer said.

‘ _You’re_ like the moon. Not your mother. You are. Bright and cool and—and—safe to look at.’

Arms encircled her waist from behind. ‘I appreciate the charm,’ Glimmer whispered, ‘but we both know the moon isn’t what you need right now. _Go_.’

Adora went.

The corridors were too empty and too bright after the magic of the ballrooms. She followed Catra down one hallway, up a flight of stairs, down another corridor—how did Catra know where she was going? _Did_ she know where she was going—and just as she was considering calling out, Catra opened a door ahead and slipped inside.

Adora paused in front of the door. Her heart was pounding, not with fear but with anticipation. She opened it.

The room was a study. Bookshelves covered most of the walls; at the end, a massive desk looked out over the palace gardens. Catra was standing between the desk and the wall, eyeing the former with an unreadable expression.

Adora shut the door with a near-silent _click_. Catra heard her anyway, and her mask did nothing to hide the look of surprise on her face when she spun around. ‘Adora? What are you—’ She cut herself off, surprise replaced in an instant by the smug smirk that was so _thoroughly_ her. ‘Back for more, are you?’

Adora never wanted to stop seeing that expression.

The thought struck quite suddenly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and with it the simple realisation: Catra hadn’t changed, not really. She’d always been prickly, wild, provocative—and Adora had always stood her ground. _They_ hadn’t changed. Only the distance between them had, and like two bodies endlessly circling each other it had thrown their orbits out of alignment.

‘Adora?’

Adora blinked. She’d been silent for too many seconds. Catra’s expression changed, curiosity softening the triumph in her eyes—and how had it come to that? How had the act of being alone together become so loaded, that Catra saw it as victory when Adora acquiesced?

(Adora knew exactly how. She’d been there every step of the way. And yet there was a part of her, the deep, fundamental part that cared more than it thought, that insisted on the question: how? _Why?_ )

All this—all this and so much more—passed through her mind as she watched Catra.

‘Adora?’ It was a whisper this time.

‘Yes,’ Adora said. Her voice was strong and even. ‘I’m back for more.’

By the look on her face, Catra still didn’t understand. Adora would have to take matters into her own hands. Catra didn’t move as Adora crossed the distance between them, and it was so easy to push her up against the dark wood panelling of the wall, so easy to know just how their bodies would fit together, so easy to admire the way Catra’s chest was heaving, the way her eyes shone in the dim light, the way her face was already flushed with something other than embarrassment. Why hadn’t she done it before, when it was so easy? When this was the result?

‘Adora—’

It was a heady thing, Adora thought, to bring someone to breathlessness with nothing more than her presence. She leaned in a little more, and when she spoke it was with a calmness she did not remotely feel. ‘I don’t know if you actually want this or if you’ve just been trying to make _me_ want it, so you could turn around and take it away. And if it’s the latter, congratulations. You win. It worked. But if it’s the former…’ Adora pressed a kiss to the base of Catra’s left ear; then, when Catra tilted her head up in response, to the hollow of her collarbone. ‘I’m here. I want it, too. I want _you_. What are you going to do about it?’

She meant it as a simple question, not a challenge—but even through the layers of Catra’s dress she could feel her shiver. Adora could feel her every movement as she reached up with one hand, undid her mask, and threw it aside. It hadn’t covered much, in truth, but there was something symbolic in the act, and a moment later Catra’s other hand was on her back, pulling her closer, and the last thing Adora registered was Catra’s voice, low and husky and—even now, even pinned against a wall, even still—oh-so-smug: ‘ _Take you.’_

It wasn’t Adora’s first kiss. It wasn’t even, technically, her first time kissing Catra. It felt like it, though. It felt like every culmination of every wound-up moment they’d ever spent together; like the full stop at the end of every sentence they’d left unsaid. There was no space between them, literally or figuratively, for anything else. Adora closed her eyes and let herself be swept up in the thrill of sensation: Catra’s lips soft against hers, her tongue warm and insistent, her teeth that little bit sharper; Adora fisted her hands in Catra's hair and, even muffled by the kiss, the noise Catra made in response was the sweetest thing she'd ever heard.

Catra’s tail was lashing back and forth and when it found one of Adora’s wrists, soft and teasing, Adora couldn’t help but moan into the kiss and she could feel Catra’s feral grin in response and _none_ of it made her want to stop, and then Catra’s claws were out—Adora could feel them on the back of her neck—but it was a gentle sharpness, a grounding sharpness. Between the pleasant heat on her neck and the way Catra’s teeth caught at her lips, Adora felt the tension bleeding out of her, bit by bit: it was as if the rough, prickly thing that had existed between them had been forced out, made manifest, turned into something they both wanted.

When they separated it was all Adora could do to catch her breath.

 _Finally,_ she thought, just as Catra said, _'Tell_ me you don't wish we'd done that sooner. I dare you.'

Adora had no appetite for dares. She leaned in, trailing more kisses along the skin from Catra’s shoulder to her neck, heedless of the marks she might leave behind.

‘ _Oh_.’ Catra’s voice was strained. ‘Okay. I can—’ She moaned as Adora reached the soft skin of her throat. ‘I can work with—’

Only Adora wouldn’t let her work with it, wouldn't let her do anything but moan again as Adora kissed her, deeper this time, more urgent, and suddenly the layers of Catra’s skirts seemed a pointless impediment and she gathered the fabric, bunching it up until she could press her thigh between Catra’s legs and—

Catra shuddered against her and _whined_. The sound went straight to the base of Adora’s spine. Her pulse pounded in her ears; her skin felt hot and taut, like a guitar string waiting to be strummed.

‘Hold on.’

Adora stifled a gasp of disappointment as Catra pushed her away and bent down. It was absurd that she could miss the contact between them after mere seconds of separation, but disappointed she remained.

There followed a ripping sound; Adora glanced down. Catra’s skirts were torn right down the front, from the waist to the hem. ‘Why did—’

The rest of the query was lost when Catra quite literally jumped on her. Her legs, freed from their constraints, wrapped around Adora’s waist, and she tilted Adora’s head up to press another kiss to her lips. ‘That’s better,’ she murmured.

Arms straining, Adora pressed Catra back up against the wall, letting it support part of her weight, but the act had none of her earlier confidence behind it—she’d known, truly, that there was no way Catra would let herself be taken advantage of for too long, that at some point the tables would turn, but she hadn’t expected it to happen in quite so skirt-rending a fashion.

‘Enjoying the view?’ Catra said in the slow, languid way she had when she was determined to enjoy a moment to the last.

And for the first time that evening, Adora blushed. Catra’s neckline was as low as any she’d ever seen and her bosom was right at eye level and—

Above her, Catra laughed with delight. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said, in something closer to her normal voice. ‘Go on.’

Adora barely needed the hand on the back of her head for encouragement. Her lips found the swell of Catra’s breasts, kissing every inch of exposed skin, and Catra’s contented hum turned into a soft purr. Her hands were in Adora’s hair, her tail wrapped lightly around her neck, and despite the growing heat between them, the moment was a peaceful one.

Then Catra pushed off the wall. Adora stumbled backwards and for half a second she thought they would both end up on the floor, but then her thighs hit the edge of the desk and she sat down hard. Catra’s weight bore her down until she was flat on her back, legs dangling awkwardly; Catra herself looked almost dainty at the end of the desk, straddling her.

‘ _Catra_ ,’ Adora said, trying to instil the necessary opprobrium in that single word as she squirmed, undignified, into a more comfortable position further up the desk.

Catra followed her on all fours. Adora’s protestations died in her throat: the look on Catra’s face gave her the affect of a stalking lioness, proud and unconcerned. The remains of her skirts pooled around Adora’s legs and waist as she came to a stop, face a few inches from Adora’s.

‘Yes?’

Adora swallowed. ‘We could have been hurt,’ she whispered.

Catra kissed her, long and slow and passionate. ‘We weren’t, though.’

Already Adora was losing her train of thought again. Catra’s weight on her, her body pressed up right against her, her eyes filled with desire—it was all too much. Catra was the sun, necessary and unstoppably bright, every touch drawing little gasps, and when her hands roamed freely over Adora’s body, when she kissed Adora, when she captured her wrists and pinned them above Adora’s head, when Adora moaned and bucked against her—

‘I could have you right here, on this desk.’ Catra’s whisper was beguilingly quiet in her ear. ‘I could make you come undone and you wouldn’t stop me, would you?’

‘Yes,’ Adora gasped, burning with Catra’s regard, ‘please—’

‘But I won’t.’ Catra grinned at the noise Adora made then, all frustrated lust.

‘What? _Why?_ ’

‘It’s enough to know you’d let me.’

Adora blinked as her mind caught up, came to terms with the fact that she _wasn’t_ about to lose her virginity. The transition was confusing. She could hardly tell whether she was relieved or disappointed.

‘Think of the _rumours_. Her Grace’s ward, ruined. _Spoiled_.’

Adora flinched. ‘Don’t say that.’ She felt disjointed, unsatisfied, but there was a voice in her head agreeing with Catra, saying _thank God you didn’t do something_ that _stupid_.

‘Why not?’ Catra sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘Those are the words they use. Those are the words _you_ use. Don’t you believe them?’

‘You can’t—’ But that was a stupid thing to say, because Catra _could_ and _had_. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘No. It isn’t, is it?’

Catra was still on top of her, still holding her down, and Adora found it difficult to focus on anything but the bright, mismatched lights of her eyes. Despite everything, she found herself wanting to bridge that gap again, rewind time just the smallest distance. It had been easy. It had been nice to forget about the context for just a moment and do what she truly wanted.

Then, as if reading her mind, Catra eased off the pressure and got off her. She offered Adora a hand up and they sat side by side on the desk as Adora sorted through the mess of her emotions. It hadn’t occurred to her, when she’d asked Catra whether she really wanted her or was just playing with her, that the answer might be _both_. In the past she’d felt anger at Catra’s little machinations, her provocations. Now she recognised the truth. Catra had never bothered trying to hide what she wanted. In that sense, she’d been perfectly honest—Adora had simply not believed her until now. Every other time she’d reacted with anger, frustration, and so, now, she put those emotions to the side and listened to what Catra had to say.

(She knew what _she_ had to say to win Catra over. Knew it exactly. It was a little frightening, the temptation to throw caution to the wind and simply _say_ it.)

‘I don’t want to hurt you, Adora,’ Catra said quietly. ‘I’m not doing this _just_ to toy with you.’

‘Then why did you do it? Why kiss me at all?’

‘Because there’s only so much I can deny myself. There’s only so far hope alone gets me. I _want_ you, Adora, but—’ Catra’s hands balled into fists. ‘Come with me, back into the ballroom. Kiss me again in front of everyone. Will you do that?’

Out in the open like that, the temptation grew stronger. ‘You know I can’t,’ she said eventually.

Catra sighed. ‘And _that’s_ why I have to keep playing with you. The moment I give in, the moment I let myself have you, is when I admit that I’m secondary in your life. There’s no space for me in that life, not if I want to be anything more than a pet.’

The words were almost painfully frank. ‘So you want me to give in instead.’

‘I suppose so.’ Catra laughed without humour. ‘What I _really_ want is for none of this to have happened. I want to never have _heard_ of the Duchess of Brightmoon or the Earl of Frightley. I want Miss Weaver to never have gotten her hooks into either one of us. Do you remember what it was like, when we were young? How much we didn’t _care_ about any of this?’

‘We were naïve,’ Adora said, and wondered if she believed it herself.

‘It hardly matters now. We are who we are.’

Adora licked her lips. ‘Regardless, I… I wouldn’t take it back. Tonight.’

‘No,’ Catra said. ‘Neither would I.’

Acting on a whim, Adora leaned in one last time and pressed her lips to Catra’s. It was a soft, lingering kiss, and when they broke apart again, long seconds later, there was a hint of a smile on Catra’s face.

‘I should go,’ Catra said.

‘All right. Um, I know you don’t care, but…’ Adora gestured vaguely at Catra’s ruined dress.

Catra rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go out another way.’

‘What?’

Catra hopped off the desk, moved to the far wall, opened one of the windows, and poked her head out.

‘We’re on the first floor…’ Adora trailed off as Catra clambered onto the ledge outside the window.

‘Don’t worry,’ Catra repeated. ‘I’ll land on my feet.’

Then she was gone.

Adora remained in the study longer than she cared to admit, thinking. Of all the things they’d done that night—and even then she blushed to remember some of them—it was that final kiss that weighed heavily on her mind. Everything else she could ascribe (to put it delicately) to a temporary overabundance of enthusiasm. That kiss had been different. It had come after everything else, after every sobering reflection. It had been a promise of something else, something unknown, something coiled around her and so slowly squeezing.

*

Bow and Glimmer intercepted her in the main hallway.

‘Adora? Where are you going?’

They were looking at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted horns. ‘Back to the ball?’

‘Er,’ Bow said. ‘Are you aware that you look, um…’

‘Ravished,’ Glimmer supplied. The corner of her mouth threatened amusement.

Adora coloured. ‘What?’

‘Your hair is unkempt,’ Glimmer said, ticking things off on her fingers. ‘Your top two buttons are undone, there are marks all over your neck, _and_ you’ve just turned bright red.’

Adora’s hand went to her shirt. Two buttons were indeed missing. When had that happened? ‘You should see Catra,’ she mumbled.

Bow gasped audibly.

‘All right,’ Glimmer said, taking her arm. ‘Bow, can you go make our excuses? I felt faint and Adora offered to take me home.’

It felt good for someone to take charge of her. Adora let Glimmer throw her shawl around her and lead her outside, where a footman rushed to signal their carriage. Not thinking was easy.

‘You’re lucky,’ Glimmer said once they had set off, a-clattering down the cobblestones. ‘If anyone had seen you like that… It would have been all over London by tomorrow. I shudder to think what Mother would say. Especially with the Regent’s Ball so soon. _Especially_ if she knew who you were with. You know people talk about you, right? It’s not just about Catra, either. It’s the duels, and how little you seem to care about men—’

‘Glimmer?’ Adora’s voice was raw, on the verge of tears.

Glimmer froze. Her demeanour changed utterly. It was as if she’d been focused on some external problem and now, being alerted to Adora’s emotional state, had suddenly shifted her attention to the internal problem instead. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, snaking an arm around Adora’s shoulders. ‘You were so confident earlier, I didn’t realise you needed…’

‘I need you to tell me,’ Adora said slowly, ‘that _you_ wouldn’t care. That I could have gone in there with Catra and kissed her in front of everyone and you wouldn’t have cared.’

Glimmer was quiet for a long time. ‘I would have cared because of what it meant for you. I would have cared because I know how other people would have reacted, and I’d have been worried that you’d be sent away. I don’t ever want to see that happen. But I promise you, I wouldn’t have cared as it relates to _you_. It wouldn’t have changed how I think about you.’

‘Okay. Good. Okay.’

‘I was the one who told you to figure out what you wanted. I’d be a bit of a hypocrite if I blamed you for doing just that.’

Adora laughed weakly. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be insecure.’

‘It’s all right.’ Glimmer laid her head on Adora’s shoulder. ‘Tell me one thing, though. Was it worth it?’

Adora twitched the curtain back and watched the streets of Mayfair going by. A few drops of promised rain ran down the window, reflecting the tears absent on her cheeks.

‘Yes,’ she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would describe this chapter as "self-indulgent". (Let's play Regency bingo! Everyone, cross off "using the word 'decolletage'" and "masquerade ball".) I dearly hope it's also indulgent for you peeps. <3
> 
> Anyway. I'm upping the rating to M for this chapter, just in case. I'm pretty hazy on where the line is between T and M, though, so if any of you have a better idea, let me know if you think I should change it back.
> 
> Finally, I'm, uh, moving continent in two days. Not sure when I'll have time to write properly again, so don't be alarmed if the next update takes a little while! It will come. I promise. Until then, I hope this lived up to the build-up - let me know what you thought! :)


	10. Adora—September 1817

_In which the Duchess of Brightmoon reveals, and Adora disregards, a secret_

‘Something has changed.’

Adora looked up from her scone. ‘What do you mean?’

Angella tilted her head. She had her teacup and saucer in hand, as if posing for a portrait. ‘Since Princess Frosta’s ball. You have become more… self-assured. I suppose it would be wishful thinking to chalk it up to the attentions of a young man?’

Adora bristled. ‘Why is that always the first thing people think of?’

It was always like this, when the Duchess of Brightmoon invited one to a private luncheon, or afternoon tea, or for drinks after dinner. Bow had warned her about it almost the first day she’d entered the household—the subtle interrogations, the little tests. Most of the time Adora didn’t mind.

‘In my case, it is because I have been asked one too many times what, exactly, you have against men.’

‘I have nothing against men!’ Adora applied clotted cream with too much vigour. A dollop escaped her scone and fell onto the carpet. ‘I like them, I talk to them, I dance with them, I just don’t… _fawn_ over them.’

Angella took a sip of her tea. ‘Quite,’ she said. ‘I do not disagree with you. A pity nonetheless.’

‘What?’

Angella ignored her. ‘It is the girl, then.’

Adora froze. Could someone have followed her? Could they have seen her and Catra? The thought brought colour to her cheeks, which did little to help the case for a denial. ‘What girl?’ she said, regardless.

‘Adora.’ Angella smiled faintly. ‘I am not so unobservant as you seem to think. I noticed you dancing with her.’ Her expression hardened. ‘And I noticed you disappearing at the same time she did.’

Somewhat to her surprise, Adora didn’t find herself cowed. ‘And if I did?’

‘Don’t play games with me. I know who she is, and _you_ know that you are not to associate with her. So we shall nip it in the bud. I told you, once, that there were allowances I could make. Let me be clear: this is not one of them. You are to avoid her henceforth.’

Adora wasn’t sure whether she was trying to contain laughter or tears. _Nip it in the bud?_ Angella was far, far too late—and it was that proof that the Duchess of Brightmoon was not, in fact, omniscient that put the steel in Adora’s words. ‘Why should I?’

Angella blinked. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Why should I?’ Adora repeated, louder. ‘You’ve never given me a single _reason_. All I know is that you hate Frightley and everyone associated with him. But _why_? What’s actually _wrong_ with him? From my point of view, all he’s done is taken people in and let them live the way they want! The rest of you might find that unappetising, but I think _you_ could stand to be more like _him_!’

‘Adora—’

‘I’m _not done_.’ Adora wasn’t conscious of having gotten up, but there she was, standing over the table, scones quite forgotten. ‘I don’t mind living by your rules, Angella. For the most part they make sense. But if you want me to abandon my best friend, I’m going to need a damn sight more than your word that there’s a good reason!’

‘Adora, _sit down_.’

Adora let out a tense breath. She sat down.

‘That’s better.’ Angella met her eyes over the rim of the teacup. ‘I don’t want you to think I don’t sympathise. But don’t you think you’re overreacting? How long have you known this woman? A few months?’

This time Adora did laugh. It came out broken, disbelieving. ‘A few _months?_ I’ve known Catra almost longer than I can remember! We were at Miss Weaver’s together. For most of my life she was the only person I truly cared about.’ The truth came surprisingly easy, as if she was discovering there’d been no real reason to conceal it; and this time the tears came with it. ‘If you had—she might have—’ But _that_ was a truth too far, and she settled back into silence.

The amount of time it took Angella to rearrange her perception of the situation was, apparently, no more than ten seconds. ‘Forgive me,’ she said after that time had passed. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘You didn’t _know_? You were there! You came to Miss Weaver’s! I—I talked to Catra not _five minutes_ after you left. I just…’ Adora’s hands formed fists. There were other accusations she could level, but in that moment all she wanted were answers, no matter how unlikely she was to get them. ‘I just want to know _why_! Is that so bad? Is it so hard to understand?’

Angella regarded her, silently, for long enough that Adora felt the urge to squirm in her seat. Even now, from the vantage of her moral high ground, it was difficult to compete with the Duchess’ assurance.

( _Glimmer_ had no such compunctions. Adora felt a blend of awe and concern every time the Brightmoons engaged in yet another shouting match—not that the approach yielded much more than Adora’s, in the end.)

‘All right,’ Angella said presently.

Adora blinked. ‘All right?’

‘I have never had cause to tell Glimmer, and she has never asked. It is for the best, perhaps, I don’t wish to—’ Angella’s mouth formed a thin line. ‘Well. You will see.’

‘You mean—you’re just—you’ll tell me?’ Glimmer had complained so often about being left in the dark, Adora had always assumed she must have asked and been rebuffed. Did she know, Adora wondered, that Angella would simply tell her if asked?

Angella laughed quietly. ‘Yes. You make a very reasonable point. I can’t ask you to do this on blind faith. So.’ She took another sip of tea, then put the cup down and straightened her shoulders. ‘Do you know much about my husband?’

Adora hadn’t been expecting that. ‘Er—he was in the army with you, in the war. He… he died.’ She winced—was it really true that that was all she knew? She’d seen his image, of course—there were any number of portraits about the house—but somehow she’d never dug deeper, had always assumed the subject to be too sensitive, too off-limits.

‘Yes.’ Angella’s voice was perfectly even. ‘I was a field commander. His role was more nuanced. He was a spy, you might say. He went ahead, secured our lines of supply, scouted the field of battle, identified pockets of local resistance… any number of things. It suited him, like the directness of the battlefield suited me. We worked well together.

‘One day he talked me into a particularly audacious ploy. It was a few weeks after Corona. The army had been forced out of the Peninsula. Those of us who were left were desperate for some way to slow the French. Bonaparte was in Spain in person, commanding—it’s hard to explain what that meant for morale. After Leipzig, after Waterloo, it was different. Back then he was invincible. So I approved the plan.’

‘What was… what was the plan?’

‘It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he never got close. He and his soldiers were ambushed and killed along their route.’ There was a slight waver in Angella’s voice, and she reached for her cup of tea as if it were a lifeline back to the present. ‘In the chaos, the incident was never properly investigated. But I looked into it myself. And do you know what I discovered?’

‘What?’ Adora whispered. The room seemed cooler, suddenly, and she almost asked Angella to stop, as if she did not want to be inducted into this secret, as if it were better to stay ignorant—but there was something hypnotic about the Duchess’ words, something that drew her into the telling.

‘That the plan had been suggested by his superior officer, back in London. That the details had been known only to the two of them. And that the ambush had been no coincidence. The French knew exactly where they’d be.’

Adora already knew the answer, but it seemed right to ask: ‘Who was his superior officer?’

Angella smiled, and the cold intensity in that smile made Adora recede into her seat. ‘Hordak,’ Angella said. ‘The fourth Earl of Frightley.’ The name hung in the air between them for several seconds. Then Angella went on, and for the first time Adora saw her not as a duchess but as a general: ‘So you see, Adora, I know that Frightley is a traitor. I know that he is a murderer. I have never been able to prove it, but one day I will, and he will face the Prince Regent’s justice. Until then…’ Angella raised one perfectly elegant hand. Her voice was at utterly at odds with the hardness in her eyes. ‘You are not to associate with Frightley. You are not to associate with Catra, or any of his other strays. You have heard my reasons, and they are final. Is that understood?’

And what else could Adora say in the face of so much repressed grief, so much anger? What else but ‘Yes, Your Grace’?

‘Good.’ Something changed in Angella’s expression and just like that, the general was gone and the noblewoman sat in her place. ‘Now, with the Regent’s Ball coming up, we may yet accomplish something. I have a list in mind, of young gentleman who would be most suitable as dance partners—would you care to discuss it?’

Adora lifted her own cup to her lips. She took a sip.

What else, indeed?

*

Carlton House sat between Pall Mall and St. James’s Park like a building that thought itself the centre of the world.

It was not, perhaps, the most fitting claimant to that title. It was known more for the rumours told of what went on behind its doors, rumours that could not be repeated in polite company, than for the work of government; but it was where the Prince Regent made his home, and in that narrow sense the claim was true.

The reality did not live up to Adora’s expectations. The Regent’s Ball was more— _sanitised_ , somehow, than any other event she’d been to, more rote. It was like an idealised ball, glittering and choreographed, people mingling in invisibly set-out ways, making sure they were seen to be present. Adora herself made her way down Angella’s list, and there was an understanding that passed between her and the young men she talked to, that they would pretend this was something spontaneous.

(She didn’t need Glimmer’s whispered commentary to know that there would be more to come; that the Prince Regent, who had yet to even make an appearance, was merely going through the motions of entertaining his nobility. It made her feel better, somehow, that he too was waiting for the formalities to be out of the way, that he might enjoy the company of his true friends—and yet, considering the rumours, Adora was quite glad that the Duchess of Brightmoon and her family were excluded from that inner circle.)

Which is why it was all the more surprising when, in the brief pause before the first dance, a stir went through the crowd, heads turning and conversations trailing off. Adora craned her neck to see what was going on; a moment later that became unnecessary, as the disturbance changed course and headed straight for her.

‘I see Frightley’s influence only increases,’ Angella said, and there was enough poison in her voice to kill an elephant. ‘Here of all places I had hoped to be free of him.’

Adora was barely paying attention. Catra was flanked by Lady Scorpia and Lady Entrapta, and the three of them sliced through the onlookers like a cavalry charge in miniature: but Adora had eyes only for her, for the three-piece suit she most certainly should not have been wearing to an event like the Regent’s Ball, the burgundy setting off her skin and her hair. (A footman trailed impotently behind, as if to take issue with Catra’s mode of dress; but if that was indeed his mission, Catra’s supreme confidence neatly precluded it.)

Catra came to a stop in front of Adora, and she did not bother to hide her appreciative look as she returned Adora’s scrutiny. Adora blushed. It was one thing to be admired by men, of whom it was expected; quite another for a woman to do so, who had no motives but her own desire, and the thought set Adora’s heart racing.

Silence reigned. It felt like every person in the room was looking at them. Then Catra held out one hand in invitation, and for a moment Adora herself was fooled by it all: Catra had every stitch the elegance, every inch the swagger of the dukes’ sons milling around them, and surely it made sense that she was here, under the Prince Regent’s roof, asking Adora to dance.

But she was not a prince, or a duke’s son, or anyone’s son at all, for that matter, and whatever concessions Angella was willing to make in private, it simply would not do for a woman to dance the waltz with another woman.

‘Miss _Catra_ , is it?’ Angella's voice was as coolly polite as it had ever been. ‘I will spare you the effort. Adora will not be dancing with you, tonight or ever. She has already agreed to—’

‘I wasn't addressing you.’ Catra didn’t turn towards Her Grace, didn’t afford her the smallest courtesy, and even Adora found herself taken aback. _No one_ dismissed the Duchess of Brightmoon so comprehensively. ‘Adora can speak for herself.’

In the few moments it took Angella to compose herself, Adora found her voice. ‘What are you doing, Catra?’

‘Collecting on a promise you made me,’ Catra said. ‘One waltz, remember?’

Adora swallowed. She _did_ remember, but that had been before. Back then she’d thought she already knew what her life would bring. It had been an easy promise to make; a harder one, now, to honour. She could all but feel Angella radiating disapproval behind her. Part of her wished she could turn and see what Glimmer was thinking—but perhaps she’d already deferred too many decisions to the judgement of her friends.

Which left only Catra. Catra, whose outstretched hand hadn’t wavered in the slightest, whose expression was set in the patient confidence of someone who knew there was only one possible outcome. That smug half-smile woke something in Adora, some infuriation at being so manipulated, and with it the memories of every foolhardy thing Catra had ever convinced her to do—and the memories, too, of the way Catra could turn a prank at Adora’s expense into something special, something only they had shared; the way Catra could make fun of her, and it would feel like the sweetest of endearments from anyone else.

And that was the thing. Catra was infuriating. No one would deny that. But in Adora’s case, that emotion stood in for something else; and she knew, then, the reason Catra stood there, uncharacteristically quiet, not pushing but only waiting. The promise didn’t matter, not really. It was just an excuse. What mattered was Catra’s certainty that Adora would not throw away a lifetime of love—and like a self-fulfilling prophecy, that faith banished Adora’s doubts.

‘I remember,’ Adora said—

‘ _Adora_ ,’ Angella snapped.

—and took Catra’s hand.

No one stopped them. That was how scandal worked—if you stopped it before it happened, it couldn’t be scandalous, and if there was one thing Adora had learned, it was that people _loved_ to be scandalised. Catra led her through the endlessly murmuring crowd, and Adora wasn’t sure if it parted before them or if it was merely her imagination injecting its share of melodrama.

They took their positions amidst the other couples. Catra’s right hand was firm on Adora’s waist; her left was warm and smooth where their fingers interlaced. Adora settled her free hand on Catra’s shoulder—and what a shame that it wasn’t bare, she thought, and fought down another blush—and focused on Catra’s face. She didn’t want to see anyone else, didn’t want to know what glances were being cast their way, didn’t want to worry about anything but keeping the slight smile on Catra’s face.

The music struck up.

To dance with Catra required no conscious thought. Gone was the tension of their dance at Princess Frosta’s ball, replaced by a lightness Adora hadn’t felt in years. It felt natural to let Catra lead her through the steps, to be twirled and dipped until she had to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside.

Neither of them said anything until the music slowed, halfway through, and Catra leaned in, her hair tickling Adora’s face. ‘Did you know the Prime Minister was here?’

Adora blinked. ‘Yes?’ She didn’t mention that Glimmer had had to point Lord Liverpool out to her.

‘Lots of important people.’

‘What are you getting at?’

Catra met her gaze. ‘Lots of people. Watching.’

Adora flushed. Consequences lined up in her mind, clamouring to make themselves known, but she deferred those thoughts, banished them to the world outside their bubble. There would be a reckoning for doing this so publicly, but it would be _later_ , even if later was measured in minutes.

‘Let them,’ she whispered, and Catra pulled her closer.

There was nothing more to say after that. They danced, and people watched; but it was as if those two facts were unrelated.

Then Catra dipped her one last time and the music stopped. They stood frozen in tableau and in those moments of silence Adora found herself looking up at Catra’s face, at the chandeliers spilling golden light behind her, and she was reminded of the way Catra had looked in Margate, of how much Adora had wanted to kiss her then (and how much effort she might have spared them both if she had!), and Catra’s lips were so close now it would be so easy—

Adora wasn’t aware of making the decision, only of the result: of Catra’s lips against hers, Catra’s arms holding her up, of the slight sound of surprise Catra made as Adora slid her fingers through her hair and deepened the kiss, soft and passionate, and then—

Then the floodgates opened in Adora’s mind and, finally, sense came rushing back. She broke away, breathing hard and ragged.

If it had been any other girl, she might have got away with it. Her Grace was one of the two or three most powerful people in the country and, Adora was reasonably sure, in another circumstance she would have bent that power to Adora’s protection, no matter the anger she might show in private.

But Catra wasn’t just any girl. Catra made it personal. Her Grace might have protected her from society at large, but there was no protection from Angella herself, Angella who’d told her precisely why she was to avoid Catra, who’d shared something with her that even Glimmer did not know, who was now looking at her with an expression of such distant fury it was like a wall had appeared between them, blank and unsurpassable.

Catra had been wrong—Adora wasn’t afraid of Angella. She could have accepted that anger and its consequences, could have accepted being forced out of the life she'd started to build. Glimmer, though—the naked fear on Glimmer's face—stopped her thoughts in their tracks. And perhaps Adora was being indecisive, perhaps she wanted too much, but she could not understand why the world seemed so intent on making her _choose_ , why dancing one dance with Catra should mean losing Glimmer forever—

But the world was the way it was, and Adora knew what she had to do, could see quite clearly the one path that might keep them both in her life. She would have to trust that Catra, too, understood.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘Adora, don’t—’

But Adora was already wrenching out of Catra’s embrace, putting space between them, drawing herself up to her full height, arranging her features in what she imagined was the appropriate indignation: ‘How _dare_ you!’ she said, and it was like playing a part, like reading the dialogue in an overwrought novel. ‘You’ll answer for this!’

That was the point, of course. Sincerity would get her nowhere—everyone present had seen that Adora had kissed Catra, not the other way around. All that remained was to show them otherwise, to frame it in terms they understood: a prim young woman, bewitched but come to her senses at the last; a matter of honour, such as might be settled with drawn blades.

(Society was, after all, nothing but a grand play: a group of people, well-attired, well-spoken, pretending that such things as dancing and kissing carried far greater weight than they truly did; a play put on to distract from the truth. Adora knew this, now, and perhaps Glimmer—born into her role as she was—might have found an alternate solution, but Adora was not so deft, and the only way out for her was to take her position and read her lines.)

Catra stood stock still, hurt and shock combining in a way that almost made Adora reconsider—then the anger rose, hot and furious. ‘I thought you were different,’ Catra spat, and Adora jerked back, because that was not the voice of someone playing along. ‘I thought you were starting to _get it_.’

Adora could practically sense the fascination of their audience. She lowered her voice. ‘Catra, please, you don’t—’

‘No, I think I _do_ ,’ Catra snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘You thought you’d give it a try, did you? Have me when it suited you, and when it became a little too public, oh, just _fight_ me and wipe it all clean?’

Adora gritted her teeth through the lie. ‘This is on _you_ , Catra, and I—I’m calling you out! I demand satisfaction.’

For a moment she thought Catra would laugh in her face. Then her expression grew more sly. ‘I could refuse you, Adora. You know that, right? I don’t have to do _anything_ , so why should I do you this favour?’

‘Because you—because you used me—’

Catra surged forward. ‘ _Shut up_ ,’ she said, low and harsh, and reached for Adora’s side. For one vertiginous moment, Adora thought she was planning to undress her; but Catra’s hand merely settled on the hilt of Adora’s sword, hidden beneath the dress. ‘You don’t deserve this,’ she whispered. The words broke something inside Adora, something old and deep and no longer certain. ‘So I’m going to _take it back_. Those are my terms!’ she added, louder, playing to the crowd. ‘I win, the sword is mine.’

‘And if—and if I win?’

For the first time since the day they’d met, Adora found the expression on Catra’s face impossible to read.

‘You won’t.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right! Settling in took a little longer than I expected, but here we are. :) I'm going to have less time to write going forwards, but my goal is to finish this fic before season two premieres at the end of April, so I at least have a deadline!
> 
> I hope y'all are ready for the angst. (Don't worry. There won't be TOO much. Just a bit. Angst seasoning, you might say.) Let me know what you thought, and hopefully see you all soon :)


	11. Catra—January 1814

_In which Catra does not steal a sword and Miss Weaver plants the seeds of doubt  
_

‘How _dare_ you!’ Adora stood suddenly, pushing her chair back, a few stray coins rolling off the table with the force of her indignation. ‘We are respectable young ladies!’

It was a performance Catra had heard several times before. She ignored the confrontation unfolding across the table and began quietly pocketing their winnings.

‘Nothing respectable about cheating,’ the man to her left said. He was twice as large as Catra but polite, soft-spoken, respectful—quite unlike the sort of person they usually played against. Catra would almost have felt guilty if it weren’t for the inexorable interrogation of their “luck” he was currently engaged in.

‘You’d best be prepared to answer for that insult!’

Adora played haughty surprisingly well. If it were up to her, Catra was pretty sure she wouldn’t have made it halfway through the performance with a straight face.

‘I am.’

Oh. That was new. Everyone who’d ever questioned them in the past had backed off, either unwilling to fight in general or too principled to face off against a schoolgirl.

Adora said, ‘Er.’

Evidently this man had different principles. Catra exchanged glances with Adora. They’d been taking fencing lessons for over a year now, and despite Catra’s indifference—what was the point of learning to use a sword, when her claws were near as sharp?—Adora had proven herself highly adept. Even if she fancied her chances against a fully-grown opponent, however, there was the somewhat more pressing matter that she did not own a _sword_.

‘Run?’ Catra suggested.

*

The trickiest part was getting out of the tavern. After that they ran, ran until they had surely left their pursuer behind, ran through the crowded streets of London until they all but collapsed, laughing and exhilarated, outside a shopfront in a part of the city Catra didn’t recognise.

Catra’s pulse was refusing to slow down. ‘That was—’

‘Too close?’

‘ _Amazing!_ ’

Adora rolled her eyes. ‘Of course you’d—’ Then she froze, eyes darting, and before Catra could turn around Adora had pulled them both into the shop.

Together they huddled by the window, watching their pursuer walk down the other side of the street. ‘How does a man that large even run so fast?’ Catra muttered.

‘It’ll be okay. We’ll just stay here until he’s gone.’ Adora sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Catra’s tail twitched. There was a sound from behind them, and she spun on the spot—

‘May I help you?’

Oh. It was a shop; of course it had a proprietor. The man was staring at them with faint disapproval, as if considering whether to eject them, but their clothes marked them as, if not wealthy, at least potentially _connected_ to wealth.

‘Er, yes,’ Catra said. ‘We’re looking for—’ She glanced around, taking in what, exactly, the shop sold. ‘Furniture!’

Adora stepped up to her side. ‘And china. Our mistress has in mind a new dining room.’

There, that was safe, wasn’t it? A pair of servants, out doing their lady’s bidding.

‘An antique shop,’ the man said slowly, ‘is a strange place to find a new dining room.’

‘Our mistress is very particular!’ Catra said, warming to the task. ‘She does not abide by what is _fashionable_. She has a taste for…’ Belatedly Catra realised she knew precisely nothing about the history of furniture, and shut up.

It seemed to do the trick. The man spared them another few seconds of scrutiny, then retreated to the back of the shop.

‘That was also close,’ Catra said, quietly but cheerfully.

Adora looked somewhat less impressed. ‘I wish I _could_ just fight. It would be so much easier.’

Catra wrapped her tail around Adora’s wrist. ‘Plenty of time for that sort of thing. A bit of stealth and subterfuge never hurt anyone!’

Adora shot her a glance. ‘You’re in a good mood.’

She was, even if she couldn’t quite place her finger on why. ‘I am.’ She grinned. ‘Want to look at furniture?’

Regretfully, they failed to find anything their fictional mistress would find acceptable. Just as Catra was starting to think the coast must surely be clear, though, she heard Adora ask, ‘How much is that?’

Catra manoeuvred her way around the precariously stacked antiques. Adora was standing in front of an open cupboard, staring at something she had obviously just pulled from its depths. Catra craned her neck.

It was a sword. The design was an odd one: not quite rapier, not quite smallsword, the hilt and cross-guard far simpler than the swords Catra saw on the hips of well-attired gentlemen. It was as if the person who’d made it had been blind to the eddies of fashion, as if they’d made a sword to fulfil a function without a mind for who would want to wear it.

(It was beautiful nonetheless, in an understated sort of way.)

The proprietor joined them. ‘Where did you find that? I don’t remember—’ He cleared his throat, as if remembering too late that one, typically, should not admit ignorance of one’s own inventory. ‘One hundred guineas,’ he said.

Catra snorted. The price was much too high, he’d clearly invented it on the spot, and besides, England had switched to pounds the year before. Then she saw the look on Adora’s face as she put the sword back, longing and regretful; and despite the fact that all their accumulated money didn’t amount to anywhere near a hundred guineas, Catra made sure to note the street address before they hailed a hackney carriage to take them back home.

*

‘Catra.’

Catra winced. It wasn’t _that_ late—only two hours or so after curfew. She turned. Miss Weaver was standing in the corridor which led to her sleeping quarters, and for a moment, emboldened by the success of the strategy earlier that evening, Catra considered making a run for it, down the other hallway to the dormitory.

The urge passed. ‘Yes?’

She could almost count the beats as Miss Weaver waited for the courtesy Catra was supposed to show her. When it was not forthcoming, her expression grew even thinner. ‘I will see you in my office now. Adora, go to bed.’

Adora took a step forward. ‘Miss Weaver, that’s not—’

‘Go to bed,’ Miss Weaver repeated, in a tone that dared Adora to argue.

‘It’s fine,’ Catra said, shooting Adora what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

Catra wasn’t sure if she felt regret or relief as she watched Adora go. She turned to follow Miss Weaver.

‘Two weeks scullery duty,’ Miss Weaver said once the door to her office had closed behind them.

‘Great. Can I go now?’

‘Hardly,’ Miss Weaver said, taking her place behind her massive desk, and that was when Catra began to worry. Any other night Miss Weaver would have scolded her for her lack of courtesy and increased the punishment. This was different. ‘There is something we must discuss. Sit.’

Catra eyed the chair warily. Then she sat at the very edge of the seat, like a rabbit prepared to bolt. ‘ _Now?_ ’

‘Yes, now.’ Miss Weaver regarded her over the desk. ‘Have you given thought to what will happen when you complete your studies here, Catra?’

Catra stared at her. ‘Er—no?’

Miss Weaver sighed in a way that said, very clearly, she had expected little from Catra and had not been disappointed. ‘Let me explain the situation. There is someone who comes every year—a friend, we shall call him—seeking people like you. Bright, adventurous, lacking a future. He gives them a place in the world. A path, to make their own way. Do you understand?’ Catra said nothing. A few moments passed, then Miss Weaver shrugged slightly and went on: ‘He will want Adora. That is the crux of the matter. He is even willing to forgive the frankly _ridiculous_ escapades you lead her into.’

Catra bristled at the word _want_. ‘All right. So what?’

‘He will not want you.’

‘What? Why not?’ Almost before she said it, Catra cringed: Miss Weaver was surely expecting her to act defensive. ‘Adora’s not going to go anywhere she doesn’t want to,’ she added, which was code for _anywhere without me_.

‘Do I need to explain? He seeks _respectability_ above all.’ Miss Weaver raised a hand to forestall Catra’s objections. ‘You may believe what you wish. I am not cruel, Catra. I am telling you what will happen because I want to give you time to come to terms with it. That is all. I leave it to you to decide how to spend that time.’

‘You don’t know Adora at all if you think she’d just leave her friends behind.’

‘Perhaps,’ Miss Weaver said in that same, infuriatingly neutral tone. ‘You’d be doing her a disservice, however, denying her such an opportunity.’

Catra’s hands formed fists. ‘Can I go now?’ she asked again, fighting to keep her own voice neutral.

Miss Weaver nodded acquiescence. ‘Two weeks,’ she said, as if the preceding conversation had never happened. ‘And I expect nothing but the brightest plates from you, Catra.’

Later, in bed, after the tears had come; after Adora had woken to calm her with hushed whispers and soft hands stroking her flank; after all of that, Catra resolved that, no matter what happened in the future, she would have worth beyond the washing of dishes.

*

A week later, the encounter with Miss Weaver banished firmly to the back of her mind, Catra spent a sleepy Saturday afternoon running her errand. When she returned, she found Adora at dinner and dragged her back to their empty dormitory.

‘I _was_ planning on eating, you know—'

‘Shut up,’ Catra said, grinning. ‘I have a present for you.’

Adora paused. ‘A present? What for?’

‘Your birthday. Obviously.’

‘You’ve never gotten me a birthday present before.’

Catra shrugged. ‘I never had anything to give you before. Now I do.’

‘And it’s not my birthday until Wednesday.’

‘I was impatient, all right?’

‘All right, all right. I was just surprised.’ Adora paused. ‘So…’

‘Right.’ Catra had never given anyone a present before. She wasn’t sure how it was done. ‘Here,’ she said, reaching under their pillow and withdrawing a long, thin bundle tied up with string.

Adora froze. ‘Catra,’ she breathed. ‘How did you… ?’

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’

‘I know exactly what it is.’

If she was being honest, Catra was quite enjoying the reverent expression on Adora’s face. ‘Still. I think you’re supposed to look at presents. Traditionally.’

‘You didn’t—you didn't _steal_ it, did you?’

‘Adora!’ Catra did her best to sound shocked. ‘Would I do that?’

‘Yes,’ Adora answered promptly.

Catra bared her teeth in a grin. ‘I suppose I can’t argue with that.’

‘So you _did_ steal it!’ Adora sounded rather less aggrieved than she might have. If Catra were a cynical sort, she might have suspected it was the triumph of catching Catra in the act that motivated Adora, not any concern for the details of the law.

‘Calm down. I paid the man what he wanted. Promise.’

Adora sighed. ‘All right. Sorry, I—’

‘And then I went back later to, uh, _adjust_ the price. Downwards.’

‘ _Catra._ ’

There it was: the long-suffering exasperation Catra lived for. ‘What?’ she said, fighting the sudden urge to throw her arms around Adora and crossing them instead. ‘I would have haggled him down regardless. This way was easier for both of us!’

Adora was doing her best to look disapproving, but Catra could see the smile pulling at her lips. That was how it worked with them. Adora liked to _think_ she was the responsible one and Catra the troublemaker, a distinction borne out by the measure of Miss Weaver’s displeasure they each received; but the truth was more complicated than that. Catra was happy to accept the label, to protect Adora from the brunt of that displeasure, and in return let Adora’s aura of responsibility shield her from Miss Weaver’s harsher punishments. That was how it worked _._ They looked after each other. That was how it had _always_ worked, unspoken but set in the hardest stone.

(Adora was _more_ responsible. Catra was willing to give her that. But it was complicated.)

‘Besides,’ Catra went on, ‘the man didn’t even know he _had_ the sword. Anything I paid him was a bonus, if you think about it.’

‘Your brand of logic is going to get you in trouble one day, you know that?’

‘Probably.’ Catra flicked an ear. ‘Do you like it?’

Adora untied the package. Even in the dim light of evening the sword seemed to glitter, as if imbued with its own magical luminescence. Catra watched her run two fingers down the length of the blade. It was an intimately familiar gesture: the same gentle touch she applied to Catra’s arms on those occasions that Catra would find herself, tense with some quotidian anxiety, unable to sleep. ‘Yes,’ Adora said. ‘I love it.’

And perhaps, for the moment to be complete, Catra might have liked a different word substituted in that phrase; but it was not so difficult to decipher what was signified, not when Adora surged forward and captured her in an embrace and did not let go until the other girls began to trickle in, and not later when Adora, thinking her asleep, dared to murmur ‘Sweet dreams, kittycat’ into her hair.

They were, after all, still young; and moments did not have to be complete to be real.

(In later years, alone, Catra would think often of that day.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write and post these chapters with basically no review or planning beyond a very vague chapter outline, which means that I can manage a much faster pace than usual but also that I occasionally miss things I ought to have included - and one thing I regret is not having Miss Weaver present in these flashbacks a little more. I think I expected there to be more of them, or something. Anyway, hopefully this & the next flashback will go some way to rectifying that!
> 
> Speaking of that outline, the next chapter is the only one whose contents are listed as "???". Wish me luck, and let me know what you thought of this little interlude! As always, I love any and all comments. :)


	12. Adora—October 1817

_In which Adora is convinced to celebrate a birthday_

There is only one possible outcome.

Adora feels as if she is watching from a distance, suspended from the ceiling, as the circle of onlookers widens. Someone has produced a sword for Catra; dimly she’s aware that Glimmer is by her side, helping her shed the outer layers of her dress, and soon her palm is wrapped around the grip of her sword, too.

Normally that would be a comfort.

Catra has always been an indifferent swordswoman. Even without the advantage of thorough familiarity, Adora would have known that, by the way Catra held herself, by the way she stood, as if the sword was throwing off her otherwise preternatural sense of balance. Adora knows this is a duel she should win nine times out of ten—no, nineteen out of twenty.

And yet—when one party is fighting in earnest, and the other for show? There can only be one possible outcome.

Adora struggles to remember the shape of the duel. She fails to touch Catra—that much she knows, but the details are gone. Are there openings she does not take? Does Catra leave herself exposed, or has she improved more than Adora expected? (Could she have won, if she had cared less?)

The end is as clear as the rest is vague. She miscalculates, sees Catra’s sword out of position, overextends—and pays for her mistake as Catra simply ducks, drops her sword, and takes a swipe at Adora’s exposed sword-arm. The bite of her claws is not as harsh as it could be—in other circumstances it might almost have been pleasant—but Adora is taken by surprise, staggers forward a step, and then Catra is behind her and there’s nothing gentle in the way her claws rake lines down Adora’s back.

Adora cries out. She sits down hard, unbalances, drops the sword just in time to catch herself on her elbows and keep her injured back off the floor.

And silence.

Catra squats beside her and Adora tries not to look but Catra’s claw on her chin is sharp and insistent and she does, she looks, and it’s as if Catra’s eyes are fighting a war, yellow for hatred and blue for—

‘I hope you’re happy,’ Catra says, and Adora can’t tell if her voice is blue or yellow. Then she leans down and for one exhilarating moment Adora hopes Catra will kiss her; instead she reaches across her body, retrieves Adora’s sword, and stands.

There’s a moment, there, in which something might be said.

But Catra is already turning to leave. Adora does not say it.

Then she wakes.

*

Adora opened her eyes to the overwhelming relief that came with realising a bad dream was just a dream.

Her eyes were full of tears even before she remembered, though, as if the past three weeks had instilled in her a sort of emotional muscle memory; and on its heels came the actual memory, and with it the disappointment.

‘Again?’ Glimmer whispered in the darkness.

Sleeping alone had become nearly impossible. It was as if, even at night, her mind required some proof that she had not thrown away all her friends. That it had all, in some sense, been worth it. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s just a dream.’

Adora sat up. Her eyes had begun to adjust—she could see her hands clenching and unclenching. It was like watching someone else. ‘It’s _not_. That’s the whole problem.’ She laughed. The sound was unpleasant to her own ears. ‘The dreams are _real_. They’re exactly what happened. My life is literally a nightmare.’

‘Is it?’

‘ _Yes!_ ’ Adora said. ‘Everything you said about the rules not mattering—well, you were _wrong_. Or maybe I’m just not good enough at ignoring them. Look where it got me!’

‘And what about Bow?’ Glimmer’s voice had changed: not unkind, but hard and firm. ‘And me? Are we in your nightmares?’

Adora wanted to yell at her. Instead she wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the sheets.

‘You’re only reliving the bad,’ Glimmer went on. ‘ _That’s_ the part that’s just a dream. In reality there’s good, too, isn’t there?’

‘For now,’ Adora whispered.

‘What?’

‘You know why I did it?’ Adora had been mulling the words over for weeks, but this was the first time she had spoken them. ‘Because I refused to pick her over you. Because I refused to let our—our relationship be founded on _bitterness_. And now it’s just gone the other way, hasn’t it? I accidentally picked you over her. So who’s to say the bitterness isn’t going to ruin this, too?’

Glimmer opened her mouth. Then she shut it.

*

A week later it was Bow’s turn to try and draw her out.

‘I’m not supposed to leave the house.’

‘Oh, stop being so dramatic.’ Bow busied himself with the blanket. ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean to forbid you the garden. Besides, when are we going to get another day like this before winter?’

It _was_ a nice day. And it was nice to have a reason to leave the house. And yet—Adora hovered on the threshold.

‘Think of it this way,’ Bow said once it became clear more convincing was needed. ‘Angella doesn’t believe that doing the right thing outweighs doing the wrong thing. That’s why she’s punishing you. _But,_ she’s neglected to reward you for also doing the _right_ thing, so I am taking it upon myself to do it for her.’ He grinned. ‘Look, I have pineapple. In October!’

Adora didn’t much fancy pineapple. Bow looked so hopeful, though, and she stepped out onto the grass.

(It felt wrong. She _deserved_ the punishment, part of her insisted, not for Angella’s reasons but for her own. And yet—the sun was warm on her skin.)

‘Don’t talk to me about _Her Grace_ ,’ she said, perhaps more venomously than Bow deserved. ‘If she’d just—if her heart had just been a _shade_ bigger than it was—’

Bow held out a piece of pineapple. She accepted. It was too sour; the scabs on her back itched. She lay down on the blanket, fidgeting as she tried to ease the discomfort.

‘You must have known how she’d react,’ Bow said gently. ‘She _did_ make her feelings very clear. The duel helped, but—’

‘I’m not talking about the duel,’ Adora snapped.

‘Oh.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Adora could see Bow puzzling that out. ‘What _are_ you talking about?’

Adora had tried to put it out of her mind. For nearly two years she’d been successful; but now the urge to lay the blame on the Duchess of Brightmoon grew by the day. (Easier, perhaps, than accepting the blame herself.)

And she’d never brought it up, not to anyone, not until now—but why not now? Why not lance the boil once and for all? ‘It could have been different,’ she muttered at last.

‘Different?’

‘After I—After I met with Angella for the first time.’ She remembered that day, how it had shone with possibility. ‘I asked Miss Weaver if… if Her Grace would be willing to take two. Miss Weaver promised she would ask.’ For a few hours, the future had seemed so simple. ‘Her Grace refused. That was that. All this time…’ Adora closed her eyes tight against the tears. ‘All this time, Catra could have been here with me. But Her Grace said no.’

(It was more complicated than that, of course. With Catra it was _always_ more complicated.)

She opened her eyes. Wordlessly, Bow handed her a napkin. She dried her cheeks and breathed out, deep and controlled, the kind of breath that could turn into a sob at a moment’s inattention. ‘I’ve tried not to hate her,’ she said quietly. ‘But it’s getting harder.’

(And there was guilt, too, because _Angella’s_ hatred for Frightley was hardly irrational—but Catra was not the Earl.)

Bow had been staring at her for several long seconds. ‘I don’t know if it’s my place to say…’ he said eventually.

Adora snorted. ‘Spit it out.’

‘When Angella started talking about taking another ward… Well, she was very open about it. She talked to us. Me and Glimmer, I mean. She wanted to make sure we agreed. We’re a family, you know? It’s a big decision to bring someone else into a family.’

‘Great,’ Adora said. ‘I’m glad she was considerate with _you_.’

‘No, listen. She _never_ mentioned the possibility of taking two wards. And maybe she rejected it out of hand. But…’ Bow shrugged. ‘I can’t say for sure. But I think she would have at least brought it up.’

Adora was on her feet before he had finished speaking. ‘Where is she? Right now?’

Bow blinked. ‘In her study, I think—’

And then Adora was running, because Bow had just given her the most precious gift of all: a scapegoat, someone she could blame for _everything_ , without that blame spreading like poison to infect the rest of her life.

The door to Angella’s study was half open. Adora could hear voices on the other side, but she barged in without a care for decorum and was rewarded by the pure surprise on Glimmer’s face and the disapproval on Angella’s.

‘Adora,’ Her Grace said. ‘I expect you have an excellent explanation for this interruption?’

‘Did Miss Weaver ever bring up adopting a second ward?’ Angella blinked, twice. Adora held her gaze. ‘Yes or no? You can tell me off for interrupting afterwards. Just answer!’

‘No,’ Angella said with an air of wounded dignity.

The sound that left Adora’s throat was something like a laugh. She felt overwhelmed, manic, off-kilter. ‘She lied.’ Again: ‘She lied! Of course she lied!’

‘Adora,’ Angella started to say, her voice full of warning, but Glimmer cut her off with a glare: ‘Not now, Mother. Adora?’ she added, more gently. ‘Can you explain? I don’t think either of us understand.’

Adora sat in the chair next to Glimmer. She’d tried to forget those last few days at Miss Weaver’s. Now she dredged the memories up one by one. ‘After I met you the first time,’ she said, addressing Angella, ‘I came back to Miss Weaver and I said I would only accept if Catra could come, too. And she promised she would talk to you about it.’

Angella made a sound then, a sigh like tension leaving her. ‘Needless to say, Miss Weaver asked me no such thing.’

‘It’s worse than that,’ Adora said, implications unfolding even as she thought through them. ‘The day of your second visit, I was so nervous she suggested I go out for the afternoon. She would take care of everything, she said. And I did. I just wanted the waiting to stop…’ Adora swallowed back fresh tears. ‘And when I got back everything was wrong. Catra was gone. She’d just—she’d just _left_. Miss Weaver told me that Catra had overheard your meeting, heard you rejecting a second ward, that it had made her accept a different offer on the spot… I believed her. Catra’s impulsive enough for that and we’d been… at odds, for a while. I still didn’t… I should have questioned it! I should have—what did Miss Weaver tell her? If she lied to me, what did she tell _Catra_? She never liked Catra, I could tell, but I—why would she want to—I mean— _why?_ ’

The last word came out a strangled cry, echoing strangely in the study. Adora became aware that she was hunched over in her chair, as if her body was trying to curl up on itself even there; she became aware that Glimmer was staring at her with such pity in her eyes she almost wanted to disappear; and then, suddenly, Angella was there, pulling her to her feet, and before she quite understood what was happening, Adora found herself wrapped in a powerful embrace.

‘I’m sorry, child,’ the Duchess of Brightmoon whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

It was the most direct physical affection Angella had ever shown her. Almost against her will Adora relaxed, muscles relinquishing their grip on tension, and when Angella let go it felt like hours had passed.

‘I would like to have spared you your heartache,’ Angella said, returning to her usual spot behind her desk. Even then—the desk seemed a smaller barrier, somehow, than it had been before. ‘I would like to have seen you truly happy. But, though I think you meant it rhetorically, I believe I can at least answer your question.’

Adora sat back down, and if her hand on the armrest still gripped harder than it needed to, it was balanced by Glimmer’s fingers interlacing her own. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘Miss Weaver’s School for Girls is and has always been a front for the Earl of Frightley.’ Angella paused, but if she expected surprise, Adora was finding it hard to muster. The pieces had been there, even if she’d never bothered to put them together. ‘Consider: a school that taught everything an upper class child might need to know, but which counted exceedingly few such children among its students. Didn’t you ever wonder at the kind of adult it was supposed to produce?’

Adora fidgeted. ‘I thought Miss Weaver had delusions of grandeur, that’s all.’

‘No doubt that was what you were intended to think. As far as Frightley was concerned, however, you would all be beholden to him—and yet equipped to navigate both the upper and lower layers of society. No one bats an eye if one of the Frightley Set turns up in a dockside tavern. And still they find their way into the most desirable events on the social calendar. Do you see?’

Glimmer leaned forward. ‘You think they’re _spies_?’

Adora started. That had been her thought, too, but Glimmer wasn’t supposed to know about—

‘I don’t know,’ Angella said. ‘Bonaparte is defeated. But perhaps—once a traitor, always a traitor, and what better way to recruit?’

Adora glanced from mother to daughter. ‘When did you tell her?’

‘After the Regent’s Ball. Glimmer wished to know why I was being so intractable about Catra.’

‘Except I wasn’t that polite about it,’ Glimmer muttered. ‘I can’t _believe_ you didn’t tell me, by the way.’

Angella cleared her throat. ‘Perhaps we can all acknowledge we’ve had a lot on our minds recently and move on?’ When there was no objection, she continued: ‘Adora, I took you in because I did not have the proof I needed to move against Frightley. It broke my heart to think of the way he had been exploiting children, and I thought…’ She sighed. ‘I thought if I could at least give _you_ a different choice, that would be… a beginning. But Frightley is more cunning than I had expected. He has evaded all my efforts thus far, and—’ Angella closed her eyes. ‘I wish I could have done more.’

‘And—and Miss Weaver?’

‘Couldn’t deny me directly. But she could… mitigate the damage, I suppose you could say.’

‘Is that what I am, too?’ Adora couldn’t pinpoint the source of the anger suddenly welling up inside her. ‘Mitigated damage in your—your private war?’

Angella froze. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Of course not.’

‘You thought you’d just, what? Play with my life? Decide what was better for me?’

‘I asked you if you wanted—’

‘And how was I supposed to decide in any meaningful sense? I didn’t know what was really going on! I was just—just a girl whose best friend had just abandoned her, and you took advantage of that!’

Angella’s voice hardened. ‘Adora. You’re being unjust.’

‘I’m not—’

‘ _All right_ ,’ Glimmer said. ‘We’re going. Mother—give her some space, all right?’

Before Adora could interject, Glimmer was already pulling her towards the door, down the hall and up the stairs, all the way to the relative safety of her bedchamber.

Glimmer sat Adora down on the bed and pulled up a chair. ‘What was that about?’

Two floors removed from the study, Adora found her anger draining away. ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled. ‘I feel so… _helpless_. And I thought, I thought something was different, I’d made a _discovery_ , I could stop blaming you or me or your mother or, or Catra, I could just blame Miss Weaver for everything and—’ She paused. ‘But it doesn’t _change_ anything. I’m still in the same situation I was this morning. The only difference is that now I know it could have been so much better.’ There were tears in her eyes again. Adora shook her head in irritation, as if to dislodge them. ‘And…’ She laughed. ‘You’ll think this is stupid.’

‘Well, now you have to tell me.’ Glimmer took Adora’s hands in hers. ‘I promise I won’t make light of it.’

The tiniest smile tugged at Adora’s lips. ‘Really?’

‘Of course.’

Adora let her breath out. ‘Tomorrow is the twenty-eighth of October.’

‘Yes?’

‘That’s her birthday.’

Glimmer blinked. ‘Catra’s?’

‘Obviously,’ Adora said. ‘And I can’t help wondering, if Miss Weaver hadn’t gotten her way… what would we be doing tomorrow? Would we celebrate together? Where would we go?’

Glimmer didn’t answer for a long while. She drummed her fingers on the back of Adora’s hand, thoughtful, until Adora started to fidget.

‘We should go,’ Glimmer said at last.

‘What?’

‘Tomorrow. We should go. Out, into London. Do something fun. Raise a glass in her honour.’

Adora searched for a sign that Glimmer was joking. ‘You don’t even like Catra.’

‘Correction: I don’t even _know_ Catra. But you do. _And_ you like her. That’s enough for me. You’ve been cooped up for too long, Adora.’

It was tempting, not just as an excuse to leave the house, but as a way to defang the spectre of Catra’s birthday. Birthdays had always been special between them. It hurt to imagine Catra celebrating without her. ‘Angella…’

‘I can handle her.’ Glimmer grinned. ‘Just this once, take my word for it. The rules—’

‘—don’t matter. I know.’ Adora returned the smile. ‘All right. We’ll do it.’

*

Bloomsbury on a cool autumn day: rows of white townhouses; the leafy peace of Russell Square; the morning rush to coffee-houses.

It had been nearly a month since Adora had left the house. (The incarceration, she was now willing to acknowledge, was as much her work as Angella’s. The duchess’s exact words had been “not to leave the house until you can control yourself”, and it was Adora who had chosen to stew in her lack of control.) London society, it seemed, was keen to welcome her back.

‘Why is everyone staring at us?’ she asked Glimmer under her breath as they entered the courtyard of Montagu House.

The look Glimmer shot her was downright rakish. ‘Would you like to hear the rumours?’

Adora winced. ‘That bad?’

‘You _did_ disappear for a month.’

‘Tell me. I can take it.’

‘Let’s see.’ Glimmer made a show of thinking it over. ‘Starting with the obvious ones: you and Catra eloped, you and Catra killed each other in a private duel, you and Catra kidnapped each other—I’m not sure how that was meant to work. She’s been seen once or twice, though, so there’s also just the ones about you. My favourite is that you have a harem of women hidden in a house somewhere in the country.’

‘I have _what_?’

‘A harem is—’

‘I know what a harem is, Glimmer, but how on _Earth_ do people come up with this?’

Glimmer stood on tiptoes and kissed Adora on the cheek. ‘By seeing me do that.’

Adora groaned. ‘Are you _trying_ to make things worse?’

‘I’m trying to distract you. Is it working?’

Despite herself, Adora laughed. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Well, come on. There are more distractions inside.’

Adora had been to Montagu House once before, the previous year; on that occasion she had made all the requisite noises of appreciation, but in truth the British Museum had failed to spark any real interest in her.

‘No, no, this is different,’ Glimmer insisted when Adora brought this up. ‘Lord Elgin has brought back the Parthenon marbles. You know, from Greece. I hear they can’t be missed.’

And so they made their way through room after room of displays: cabinets full of pottery, stuffed animals, baubles in gold and silver, all jumbled up together with the thousands of other things Sir Hans Sloane had thought worthy of collection. It was impossible to appreciate any one thing amidst the chaos.

The marbles—they at least had space to breathe. There were twenty-one of the statues: standing and reclining, headless and more or less intact; and around them, running the length of the room, dozens of yards of intricately carved reliefs. They were beautiful, in a cold, ancient way. A small label in one corner of the room gave the name of their artist: _Phidias._ It meant nothing to Adora.

‘It feels sad,’ she said quietly after they’d re-emerged into the sunlight. ‘I’ve seen pictures of the Parthenon, but I still can’t imagine them there. Here they’re… lost.’

‘You’re in good company, then,’ Glimmer said. She looked thoughtful. ‘Lord Byron _hated_ that they were taken away from Greece.’

‘Byron?’ Adora said, reaching for their earlier levity. ‘Are you _trying_ to spread those harem rumours?’

‘Maybe it’s a better comparison than you think.’

Adora spluttered. ‘ _What?_ He’s—he’s supposed to have had dozens of lovers!’

‘So the stories say. How much of that is true?’

Adora crossed her arms. ‘I don’t even have _one_ lover.’

Glimmer shrugged. ‘It was just a thought. Lunch?’

What Glimmer had in mind when she said lunch turned out to involve a great deal more wine and sherry than Adora had expected. ‘I did say,’ Glimmer said, towards the end of their meal, seemingly none the worse for wear. ‘Something fun, and raise a drink.’ She indicated Adora’s glass. ‘So?’

Adora, who didn’t _feel_ drunk but was nevertheless entertaining serious doubts about her ability to walk in a straight line, raised the glass. ‘Happy birthday, Catra. I wish that—that things were different.’ She tried to think of something else to say, but even those few words threatened a return to tears and she was determined not to break down in public.

‘Happy birthday,’ Glimmer echoed and they drained their glasses. Then Glimmer froze. ‘Lady Scorpia just walked in,’ she said quietly.

Adora’s throat felt tight. ‘Is she—’

‘I think she’s alone—damn. She saw me.’

Adora had all of five seconds’ warning before Lady Scorpia had ambled up to their table, imposing even when not dressed as a swan.

‘Lady Glimmer! Miss Adora!’ Scorpia sounded as cheerful as ever, but Adora thought she detected an undercurrent of tension. ‘Fancy seeing you here. I heard you’d run off with a pirate. Mind if I join you?’

‘Go right ahead,’ Adora said through gritted teeth. This was going to be a difficult conversation _without_ Scorpia looming over the two of them. ‘What brings you here?’ she added, perfectly polite.

‘Funny you should ask,’ Scorpia said. ‘I’m here to finalise arrangements for dinner. We’re having ourselves something of a celebration.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I see the two of you beat us to it!’

‘And for the same reason, I’ll wager,’ Glimmer said, in a tone that Adora recognised as _conversational sparring_.

‘Is that so?’ Scorpia looked straight at Adora, and not for the first time she pondered what it would be like to get on Scorpia’s bad side. ‘Do you think that was appropriate?’

‘Scorpia—’

Scorpia slammed a hand down on the table, hard enough to make Adora jump, and all of a sudden she was pondering whether she was about to find out. ‘I warned you. I _warned_ you not to play around with her.’

‘I didn't—I mean, she was also—’

‘You didn't have to accept the dance.’ Scorpia spoke evenly. It was nothing like bearing the brunt of Catra’s anger directly, but somehow the feeling shone through regardless. ‘You sure as hell didn't have to _kiss_ her.’

‘I just wanted to—’

‘ _What?_ What did you want?’

‘Stop pretending like it’s all my fault!’ Adora said. Across the table, Glimmer made a placating gesture, and she winced and lowered her voice. ‘ _She_ could have just played along, you know.’

‘You really don’t get it, do you? Catra _did_ play along.’

‘No, she didn’t! She took it seriously. I wanted it to be make believe. Just so we’d have an… an out.’

‘An out from a problem of _your_ making. Catra was doing exactly what you wanted her to, for all the good it did her.’

Adora frowned. ‘But… she was so angry.’

‘Of _course_ she was angry! She was _furious_! You’ve been playing with her feelings for months! You know how hard it’s been, watching her pretend not to hope that you’d _finally_ come out from your perfect little world and meet her on her terms? And then, just when she thinks she has you, you ask her to help you shut the door on her again.’ Scorpia’s eyes flashed as she leaned towards Adora. ‘ _And she did it anyway_. She fought the duel for you because she didn’t want to ruin your life. It’s not her fault you lost.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Adora said, hating how small her voice had become. ‘I had to do it—I had to…’ She trailed off, fighting the urge to edge backwards in her chair. ‘She didn’t have to take the sword,’ she added, trying and failing not to sound plaintive.

Scorpia blinked, as if only now noticing how heated she’d become. She leaned back in her seat. ‘That’s true. That was… crueller than it needed to be. But don’t you _dare_ try to lay the blame solely on her.’

‘I’m _not_. God as my witness, I’ve done nothing _but_ blame myself.’

Scorpia gave this some thought. ‘If you insist,’ she said eventually. ‘But I’m through watching my friend get hurt. You’d better start listening.’ She stood up. ‘A good day to you.’

‘Scorpia—wait.’

‘Yes?’

Adora swallowed. ‘Tell her happy birthday for me?’

Scorpia stared at her for a few more seconds. Then her expression softened. ‘I can do that.’

‘Wow,’ Glimmer said into the silence that followed Scorpia’s departure. ‘That was… intense.’

‘You’re one to talk. All you did was sit there.’ Adora shook herself. ‘Did you know Scorpia could be so terrifying?’

‘She’s twice my size and has scorpion claws for arms.’

Adora quirked a smile. ‘Half again your size, maybe,’ she said, chewing on her lower lip. ‘Do you think… do you think she’s right?’

‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

‘I thought Catra duelled me _because_ she was angry. Not… _despite_ being angry. Do you think that could be true?’

The look on Glimmer’s face was so tender Adora felt like she was being enveloped in the softest wool. What had she done to deserve people who cared for her so much?

‘If it were true,’ Glimmer said slowly, ‘it would mean she fought a duel with you out of love. Does that sound like Catra?’

And for all that she had promised herself she wouldn’t, Adora began to hope again, because nothing had _ever_ sounded more like Catra.

*

A week later Adora has the dream again.

‘I hope you’re happy,’ Catra says.

She stands over Adora, sword held in one hand, as she always has; and Adora says nothing, as she always has; and then Catra bends back down, as she never has, and leaves the sword behind.

This time Adora knows it is a dream. And when she wakes—

And when she woke, the sword lay next to her on the bed like a lover who had snuck in during the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? I told you it would get better soon. I can handle half a chapter of angst, tops. 
> 
> Anyway I hope you all enjoyed this brief history of the British Museum, the Elgin Marbles, and Lord Byron's proclivities. (Putting on my historical RPF hat for the first time ever, no one can convince me that Byron and the Shelleys didn't have some sort of thing going on.) Also protective Scorpia. Protective Scorpia sounds terrifying and I hope we get to see her in the show.
> 
> I wrote most of this in one day. I am dead from writing. Send help. (Relatedly, my thanks to dear_universe for some much needed cheerleading.) Also I'm away for two weeks starting tomorrow, so next chapter is likely to take a while. On the plus side, we're entering the three-chapter climactic arc, which hopefully will mean things speed up again! (Particularly as I anticipate the chapters getting a little shorter.)
> 
> Enough rambling. Let me know what you thought! This was a tough chapter. I think it could use some work, but I didn't want to leave y'all hanging for weeks. :)


	13. Adora—November 1817

_In which Adora passes the point of no return_

For half an hour that morning, Adora basked in the warmth of contentment.

Nothing was fixed. But the darkness that had crept in at the edges of her life had lifted. There was a path there, if only she could find it.

Then there came a commotion from downstairs. At first she tried to ignore it, but as the morning grew later and later and the footsteps on the stairs more and more numerous, she found it increasingly difficult to do so. Something was happening. There had been no plans for this particular morning, nothing to explain the sudden influx of visitors. Something, Adora thought, was _wrong_.

She dressed quickly. Without thinking twice, she belted the sword at her waist—it felt right, like she was being put back into balance. No matter what domestic crisis was engulfing the townhouse, the sword and everything it represented was back where it belonged.

Adora followed the sounds of conversation down the stairs, through the half-open door of Angella's bedroom, and into chaos.

The room was full of people she’d never seen before, many of them in uniform, and for the span of three heartbeats she thought something had gone terribly wrong—but then she saw Angella in the middle of it all, not the target of the activity but its director.

‘Adora,’ Her Grace called over the hubbub. ‘Good. Come in.’

‘What’s happened?’ Adora said once she’d manoeuvred her way through to Angella’s position by the window. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘There has been a break-in.’

‘I— _what?_ ’

‘Several items were stolen,’ Angella said, and there was a tension to her that undermined the outward calm. ‘We are conducting an inventory.’

‘What was—I mean, who would—’ Adora shut her mouth on the jumble of questions. There was no point asking what Angella self-evidently did not know. ‘Who are these people?’ she asked instead. She recognised the red coats of the army, of course—anyone who’d ever read a novel recognised them—but it was odd seeing them in person.

‘I needed someone I could trust. Tongues do like to flap. Now—’

Adora turned back to Her Grace, confused. ‘Now?’

‘Your sword,’ Angella said flatly, at which point Adora realised her error.

Items had been stolen—and belted around her waist was the proof that Catra had been in the house that night.

‘Er,’ Adora said. ‘It was—I’ve had it for—’

‘Don’t lie to me,’ Her Grace snapped. ‘You didn’t have it yesterday. Where did you get it?’

The Duchess had already arrived at her conclusions. That much was obvious. Dissembling wouldn’t help anyone. ‘I found it in my room this morning,’ Adora muttered.

Her Grace was silent. The tension in her expression had transmuted into something else, some utter, intent determination. ‘Spinnerella!’

As if by magic a uniformed woman appeared at Her Grace’s side. She gave Adora a curious look. ‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Colonel Spinnerella,’ Her Grace said by way of introduction. ‘My aide-de-camp. And this is Adora, my ward.’

For a vertiginous moment Adora felt caught between the two halves of Angella, the duchess and the officer. She opened her mouth—was there something expected of her? What smalltalk did one make in a situation such as this?

Then the Duchess of Brightmoon started giving orders.

‘My study. The desk. Lower left drawer has a hidden compartment in the base. Have someone examine it—no, examine it personally. This is much more sensitive than a mere robbery.’ She paused. ‘Under no circumstances involve the Bow Street Runners.’

Spinnerella, who had been nodding along as if the instructions were nothing but common sense, looked up. ‘Why not? It’s their job to investigate lawbreaking.’

‘One never knows how far Hordak’s influence extends.’

‘Frightley?’ Spinnerella frowned. ‘What’s the connection?’

Adora’s mouth had gone dry. She could see, all too clearly, where Angella’s thinking had brought her. ‘Your Grace, you don’t have to do this.’

‘I don’t _have_ to do anything, Adora.’ The look Angella gave her dampened any further objection. ‘But it is past time I do _something_. Colonel?’

‘Ma’am?’

‘You will go to Frightley’s townhouse. You will locate his ward, Catra. And you will arrest her.’

*

‘She stole _what?_ ’

The indignation was delivered at sufficient volume to encroach on the sitting room even with the doors closed. Bow looked up. He was at the desk in the corner, writing a letter to his parents. ‘I see Glimmer’s awake.’

Adora nodded wearily. She was sitting curled up at one end of a couch, a tray of breakfast untouched on the coffee table before her. It wasn’t that Angella had _ordered_ her to stay in the room, so much as stashed her there with the expectation that she would stay. Bow had arrived not long after, but—following the usual order of their mornings—Glimmer had been significantly later to the scene.

More conversation from the other side of the door, now too muffled to make out; then Glimmer burst in, all but slamming the door shut behind her, her cheeks flushed with rage. ‘That—that _thief_ made off with the _Moonstone_ ,’ she said to the room at large.

‘Yeah,’ Adora muttered, wrapping her arms even tighter around her knees. ‘We know.’

(In truth, much more than the Moonstone had been taken—a jewellery box or two, all told—but the rest paled in comparison.)

‘I can’t believe I encouraged you to keep seeing her!’ Glimmer stalked over to the window, twitching the curtains back as if expecting to discover the missing gemstone behind them. ‘Maybe Mother was right after all!’

‘Glimmer,’ Bow said, standing up. ‘We don’t know it was Catra.’

‘Of course it was her! What, you think _more than one_ person broke into this house last night?’

‘ _Glimmer_ ,’ Bow said again, and this time the warning in his voice was unmistakeable. He jerked his head in Adora’s direction.

Glimmer’s jaw worked. She didn’t say anything.

‘It came as a shock to me, too, but remember that your mother can be a little… gung-ho about these things. I think we should wait until we know more.’

‘Fine,’ Glimmer said eventually, her tone less openly belligerent. ‘Mother’s called for a magistrate. We’ll get to the bottom of this before dinner.’

It was odd. Adora knew full well that Glimmer could be headstrong at times. Where Adora was a duellist in part because she _enjoyed_ swordplay, Glimmer saw it as a means to an end, a way to remove obstacles that sought to prevent her from doing what was right. That fierceness was a quality Adora admired, most of the time—she’d simply never expected to be on the receiving end.

Bow sat down next to Adora, at the sort of perfect in-between distance he was so good at: far enough away to respect her space, close enough to offer comfort if she wanted it. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’ve been better.’ Peripherally she was aware of Glimmer calling for tea. Part of her wanted to demand what good tea was at a time like this; the other, when the lightly steaming cup was set before her, focused on it like a starving woman regarding a single slice of bread.

‘I’m sorry,’ Glimmer said, settling down with a cup of her own. ‘I don’t mean to rage, and I know you like her, but if she really _did_ break in…’

‘She didn’t,’ Adora said sharply, and immediately felt guilty as Bow shot her a surprised look. ‘I mean, yes, she did,’ she went on, more gently, ‘but only to give the sword back. She didn’t steal the Moonstone.’

‘You can’t know that,’ Glimmer said.

‘I can.’

‘How?’

‘Because she’s arrogant, but she’s not _stupid_. Stealing the Moonstone and leaving the sword behind on the same night? There’s no way she would expect to get away with that. And I _know_ her. I know she wouldn’t throw away the life she’s built for herself just to—just for me.’

Something unspoken passed between Glimmer and Bow, in the manner of people who had spent most of their lives together. ‘Are you sure?’ Glimmer said. ‘Only—how can you _know_ that? People change.’

‘I’m sure.’ The fierceness in Adora’s voice dared them to argue. ‘I know because I refused to throw away _my_ life for her. Even if she had it in her, there’s no way she’d do it after I _didn’t_.’ Adora laughed. It came out exhausted more than anything else. ‘Not without trying to convince me to run off with her, anyway. She’d see it as admitting defeat.’

There was a nagging voice in Adora’s head, asking how she could be so sure that Catra hadn’t changed, but she ignored it. Catra would never put herself at Adora’s mercy. She’d never abide being _secondary_. That was the reason they were in this mess to begin with.

Bow said, ‘I notice you’re not denying that she’d steal the Moonstone if she could get away with it.’

In that particular moment, Adora judged that the truth—Catra absolutely _would_ steal the thing if she thought she had a good reason—was somewhat lacking in tact. ‘I know how this must seem to you. You don’t know Catra. You’ve only seen her when she’s guarded and—and closed off. She’s the perfect suspect. If I were you, I’d absolutely have my suspicions, especially after the incident with the Heartblossom Stone—’

‘Wait,’ Glimmer interrupted, incredulous. ‘You think she was behind that and you _still_ think she’s innocent now?’

Adora winced. ‘Um—’

‘If she stole it, she also put it back,’ Bow pointed out. ‘Weren’t you saying how you wished all thieves would act that way?’

Glimmer shot him a glare. ‘Whose side are you on?’

‘Hold on now, who said anything about sides—’

‘ _Hey_ ,’ Adora said, loud enough to cut Bow off. ‘Let me finish, all right?’

‘Sorry.’ Glimmer settled back a little. ‘It’s hard not to take this personally. I’ll try to—’ She paused. ‘Well, go on, regardless.’

‘But you’ve never met _my_ Catra,’ Adora said quietly. ‘You haven’t seen her at her best. She’s—she’s fierce, and loyal, and she'd never admit it but she _cares_.’ Her voice broke on the next words. ‘I can’t abandon her again.’

‘You _didn’t_ abandon her—’

Adora’s raised hand cut Glimmer off. ‘I know what you’re trying to say, and I appreciate it, but I _did_. Miss Weaver wouldn’t have been able to manipulate me like that if I’d had a little more faith in Catra. If I’d just given her the benefit of the doubt, if I’d swallowed my pride and _talked_ to her. That’s what this is about. I'm not going to make the same mistake again.’

Glimmer was still looking at Adora, her expression torn between anger and compassion. The former would have worried Adora more than it did, but she knew better: Glimmer didn’t hold Frightley's crimes against Catra, not the way her mother did.

‘If I could prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Catra didn’t do this, would you support me?’

Glimmer sighed. ‘Of course. But if you could do that, we wouldn’t have a problem.’

‘You're right. I can't prove it. But I _know_ it. I'm asking you to trust me.’ Adora glanced sideways at Bow. ‘Please?’

In the silence that followed, Adora tried to put herself in Glimmer’s shoes. To have your home invaded—to have the symbol of your family stolen—it wasn’t a situation Adora could truly comprehend. She’d never had a home the way Glimmer had a home, never had the very concept of family encapsulated in something as tangible as an item of jewellery. _Home_ had always been a person, never a place, and even the sword had only assumed its significance in her life after Catra had left it.

Presently Glimmer said, ‘Bow?’

‘The sword is only proof if you already think Catra is a bad person,’ Bow said slowly. ‘So it’s a question of whose judgement do I trust more, Angella’s or Adora’s? And that seems pretty straightforward to me, in this case.’ He reached out to squeeze Adora’s hand.

Across from them, Glimmer groaned. ‘This is hard for me,’ she said. ‘It was easy until now, because Catra never _really_ did anything bad, but now there’s this, and there’s what Mother told me about Frightley, and when I put it all together—’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s become more personal, you know? It was easy to encourage you and tease you and watch you flirt, but now…’

‘Now what?’ Adora asked, gently, after a few seconds had passed.

‘Now it’s hard.’ Glimmer snorted. ‘But, God, of course I trust you, Adora, it’s just… Ugh. I don’t want to be like my mother. I didn’t have anything against Catra before today, not unless you count the way she was toying with you, and, well, you didn’t seem to mind that so much, and—and I’m not going to let Angella’s prejudices change that.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘I’m sceptical. And if it turns out Catra _did_ do it, I’m going to be very upset with you. But I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. For your sake.’

Looking back, Adora would think of that moment as a turning point. It was the first bit of give in the tight weave of her life: the first indication there could be a _both_ to the choice that had been threatening to tear that weave apart.

At the time, all she felt was a vast relief. Before she quite knew what she was doing she was on her feet, vaulting the table between them, and then she was throwing her arms around Glimmer, burying her face in the soft pink of her hair. ‘ _Thank you_ ,’ she whispered into Glimmer’s neck.

‘It’s—whoa, it’s all right.’

Glimmer was clearly holding back laughter, and Bow was giggling, too, but at that precise moment Adora didn’t care. She drew back a little, looked Glimmer in the eye, and kissed her, once: the sort of kiss that might—or might not—have passed between friends. ‘I mean it. You didn’t have to follow me out on this limb.’

‘Well,’ Glimmer said, and she was smiling again, in that calm, soft way that always settled Adora’s nerves. ‘Now that we’re out here with you, do you have any plans for getting us down?’

Adora bit her lip. ‘I have an idea. And I need you to tell me how stupid it is.’

*

The magistrate arrived shortly after lunchtime, two assistants in tow, whereupon they immediately sequestered themselves in Angella’s study and didn’t emerge until two hours later, when one of the assistants stopped by to collect Adora.

This time Her Grace did not bother with even the briefest of introductions. ‘Adora,’ she said. ‘Glimmer suggested you may wish to speak to the magistrate. You were the one who found the sword, after all.’

‘I can—I suppose I can do that,’ Adora said, trying to sound both surprised and resigned.

Angella bade her sit in front of the desk. The magistrate—a man in his fifties, well-dressed but not ostentatious—regarded her from the other side. One of his assistants sat in a corner, taking notes; the other watched from across the room. ‘You need not feel concerned,’ the magistrate said. His tone was gentle, encouraging, as if he’d mis-read her tone as fear. ‘The evidence is arrayed. The appearance of your sword, of course, but Colonel Spinnerella also reports the suspect has disappeared. And Lord Frightley has written a letter to that effect.’ The magistrate picked up a piece of paper, cleared his throat, and read: ‘ _“Though it brings me no pleasure, I must report the situation leaves me less surprised than might be expected; blinded, perhaps, by the fondness I had for her, I had hoped my guidance would engender in her a change for the better. That the indelible mark of her origin has emerged once more is a tragic but not unexpected development.”_ You see? Even her benefactor had his doubts. This is just a formality.’

Adora barely heard the words. Catra had disappeared? That might have given her pause, had it not been for what came next: _the indelible mark of her origin_. It was a pretty way of phrasing it, but Adora knew what it meant. _Once scum, always scum_ , and the fury rose in her so strongly it was almost impossible not to show it. _This_ was what Catra had been afraid of: a world that didn’t care for people like them, that would discard them the moment they became surplus to requirement. Adora had dived headfirst into that world and emerged unscathed—but how naïve, now, to think that she had been anything other than lucky.

‘Adora?’ Adora blinked. Angella was leaning over her. ‘Are you ready?’

Adora’s grip on the armrest tightened. ‘Yes,’ she got out.

And then the unexpected—Angella’s hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing, and her voice, even and sure: ‘Needless to say, you may regard Adora’s words with the same weight you gave my own. She is my ward and I have utter confidence in her.’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

Adora took a deep breath. _Lucky,_ she thought again. _So very, very lucky_.

It was almost enough to make her feel guilty.

Adora said: ‘Catra can’t possibly have been the thief.’

Once before she’d argued with her best friend: once before she’d made decisions in hurt and anger. There’d been no guarantee, then, that she would ever see Catra again. There was no guarantee _now_ that she would ever see Catra again. But she’d learnt the lesson; she’d lived through enough regret to have the lesson stamped firmly across her psyche, and Adora was _damned_ if she was going to repeat that mistake. She would protect Catra, because to abandon someone you loved once, when you were young and foolish, was forgivable; to do so twice was beyond the pale. She would lie in service to the greater truth of Catra’s innocence, and how fitting that that was precisely the sort of justification Catra herself was expert at.

Her declaration was met with a delicate silence. Adora prayed Her Grace wouldn’t contradict her—but whether Angella truly trusted her or whether she merely wanted to avoid the embarrassment of contradicting someone she'd just endorsed, she kept her mouth shut.

‘And how can you know that?’ the magistrate asked, a few seconds later, as if he too had been waiting for Her Grace to intervene.

Adora squared her shoulders, looked straight at him, and began to lie through her teeth. ‘Because she was with me.’

The magistrate glanced at Angella. ‘Her Grace did not indicate any guests were present that night.’

‘Her Grace didn't know. Catra snuck in after dinner. She was with me all night.’

‘I see. Do you have any proof?’

Adora raised her eyebrows. ‘The sword was in my bedroom, wasn’t it?’

He could hardly reject that argument, having predicated Catra's guilt on it. ‘Perhaps, while you were asleep... ?’

The magistrate’s two assistants were watching the proceedings with wide eyes. Adora was certain he instructed them not to repeat what they heard, and just as certain that they paid him no heed. Word got out, in London. That was a fact one had to make peace with. The only secrets kept were the ones not spoken.

And yet here she was, about to speak a secret that wasn’t even true. Had it really come to that? For half a year she’d kept Catra at arms’ length—most of the time—and now she was going to throw all that caution away. She hadn’t even _spoken_ to Catra in over a month, could not even say the other woman would ever want to see her again—and still the second thoughts did not materialise. It was all too easy to conjure up an image, Catra cold and miserable and so very small, hunched somewhere in a Tower cell, imprisoned for a crime she had not committed—

Adora lifted her chin. She could imagine the intensity with which Angella was staring at the side of her head, but all her own attention was focused on the magistrate. ‘You misunderstand,’ she said lightly. ‘Catra was in my bed all night, but neither of us had much sleep.’

If the silence had previously been delicate, it now became like gossamer, a veil so thin the slightest touch would render it to dust.

One of the assistants clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle what could have been an expression of either shock or delight. The other resumed his penmanship, nib scratching a record of Adora’s words for all posterity to read.

The magistrate coughed. ‘With all due respect, Miss Adora, do you realise what you are implying?’

Quite unexpectedly, Adora found that she was enjoying herself. ‘Of course I know what I’m implying. Haven’t you heard the rumours?’

‘And you understand the, er, consequences of making that claim? I cannot guarantee your privacy.’ (At which point the magistrate cast his gaze at everyone else in the room, excepting only the Duchess of Brightmoon, as if he could compel their silence with a mere look.)

‘What sort of lover would I be if I let my paramour be carted off to the Tower?’ Adora hadn’t intended to go so far—had planned to stop at insinuations—but there was something oddly freeing about playing to her reputation. A decent fraction of London society believed it of her anyway; what was the harm in confirming those beliefs? (Who knew? One day they might even be true.) ‘Would you like me to spell it out for the record?’ She cleared her throat. ‘I spent last night engaged in carnal—’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ the magistrate said quickly.

‘Suit yourself. Was there anything else?’

There was nothing else. In short order Adora was excused. She spent the remainder of the evening in her room, coming down from the heady high of finally, truly, upending the script. It had been so _easy_ , in the end. Part of her wished she’d done it earlier. (Another part was horrified she’d gone as far as she had.)

Angella found her as she was getting ready for bed.

‘Has the magistrate made a decision?’ Adora asked, eyeing the Duchess warily.

Her Grace ignored the question. ‘Some people,’ she said, seating herself at the edge of the bed, ‘if their wards had done what you did today, might call it treachery.’

A cold sweat swept over Adora. ‘What do you call it?’ she whispered.

Her Grace’s gaze was implacable. ‘Why did you do it?’

There was nothing—no indication of what Her Grace truly thought, no indication if she was preparing to turn Adora out on the streets or— ‘It was either betray you or betray her,’ Adora said, voice trembling.

Her Grace tilted her head a fraction. ‘Your loyalty runs so much deeper than I thought,’ she murmured.

Adora’s heart was pounding. ‘I won’t apologise. Not for that.’

‘Nor should you.’ Her Grace smiled thinly. ‘Not for that. The dice are cast, I suppose, mine and yours both. Frightley has finally underestimated me. Tomorrow, Adora, we shall see what reward your loyalty reaps.’

The tension between them was so thick Adora nearly fell off the bed when the door slammed open to reveal Bow, panting and halfway to panic. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said between deep breaths—‘but have either of you seen Glimmer?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's okay, Bow, I'm sure she just went for a midnight walk.
> 
> Anyway! This took even longer than I expected. I am officially less optimistic about making my deadline. But we shall see. :D I hope it was worth the wait--I wanted to get it out asap, and as a result I didn't even proofread, so, uh, if anything doesn't make sense, by all means let me know. I know it's a bit of a gear change to suddenly veer off into plot, but don't worry! Next chapter will be plot _and_ plenty of character interaction! I'm looking forward to it.
> 
> Until then, let me know what y'all thought, and thanks for your patience :)


	14. Glimmer—November 1817

_In which Glimmer puts several plans into action_

For a brief period during her twelfth year, Glimmer Brightmoon had entertained daydreams of being kidnapped.

They went like this: some dastardly villain, wishing to exert influence over her mother, captured her in a moment of inattention; whereupon she resorted to wiles, derring-do, and, inevitably, the assistance of the villain’s hitherto misguided henchperson to effect a miraculous escape. (And if anyone had pointed out this was a strange thing for an eleven-year-old to be imagining, it should be understood that this was the age at which Glimmer had begun to understand her family’s role in society, and therefore her own suitability as a target for kidnappers. It was perfectly reasonable to have planned ahead, even if those plans had the unlikely tendency of ending with Glimmer defeating the villain in single combat.)

As the years passed, Glimmer came to realise two things: first, that kidnapping was a much less prevalent occurrence than the stories would have her believe; and second, that not even the dastardliest villain would dare interfere in the affairs of Angella, Duchess of Brightmoon.

Neither of those things, she was in the process of discovering, were of much comfort to someone who found themselves bound, blindfolded, and unceremoniously deposited in the back of a—small mercies!—well-padded carriage.

She might have panicked. Instead she fell back on her contingency plans.

The carriage rattled to a halt. Footsteps approached; the door opened; the tiny gap beneath her blindfold gave her a view of nothing but gilded trim on the carriage door. Her captors guided her to a door, down a corridor, another door, down a flight of stairs. Then, abruptly, she was free. She spun on her heel and surged forward, willing her muscles to find their way back up the stairs in the dark, but it was too late—between the blindfold and her hands tied behind her back, she simply didn’t have the necessary co-ordination to reach the door before the lock clicked shut.

Glimmer sat on the top step and thought for a while. She was underground: that much was obvious. Not a cell—the door, as far as she could tell, was a perfectly ordinary door and not reinforced in any way—but a cellar, perhaps, and a windowless cellar if the total lack of light leaking in around her blindfold was any indication. A makeshift cell? That was as good a working assumption as any.

Glimmer found she wanted to wrap her arms around her knees and cry. That wasn’t productive. She screwed her eyes shut and rose, unsteadily, to her feet. She never backed away from a challenge: if eleven-year-old Glimmer could imagine a way out of just such a situation, she could do it too. A makeshift cell, after all, could have any number of weaknesses.

She shuffled down the stairs and began to explore. It was a large room, by the way the sound of her feet on stone filled it, and that impression was confirmed as she edged around the perimeter, manoeuvring around the occasional obstacle. (Wood, straight and curved both—crates and barrels?)

‘Who are you?’

In one corner a lamp hung from the ceiling, which fact she discovered when, finding herself not alone, surprise caused her to jump a foot in the air and hit her head on the lighting fixture.

Fortunately, the glass did not break and the oil did not spill. ‘Who are _you_?’ Glimmer blurted out, her heart pounding with the need to _react_ but not quite knowing how.

‘I asked first.’

In lieu of sight, all she could trust was hearing: but the voice was resigned, sardonic, quiet; more the voice of a captive than a captor. And yet—trust was, at present, a precious commodity. ‘How do I know you’re not the one who kidnapped me?’

A laugh, cut short. ‘ _Kidnapped?_ ’

‘Why else would I be down here?’

‘Sure,’ the other woman—and she _was_ a woman, that much Glimmer could tell—said. ‘Kidnapped. If that makes you feel better.’

‘Well? How do I know?’

‘You have me figured out. I did it. I’m just down here with you for my _health_.’

Something about that voice, dripping with sarcasm, was maddeningly familiar. ‘They got you too, then.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘ _Yes_ , it matters. Don’t you want to find a way out of here?’

A moment’s silence. ‘What’s the point?’

Glimmer gritted her teeth. It was comforting to have company, she couldn’t deny that, but she might have liked company that was a _little_ more co-operative. ‘The _point_ is that I’m trapped down here with a stranger and I can’t even move my arms. There’s a lamp in the corner. I could light it with my hands free. Or would you rather stew in the dark some more?’

There followed a long, long silence. Glimmer sighed, made her way into what she thought was the centre of the room, and tried to make herself comfortable.

Some time later—it was hard to tell, in the dark—her companion spoke up again. ‘My hands are tied, too. And my legs.’

‘All right,’ Glimmer said. ‘First order of business: find something sharp. Any ideas?’

Another too-long silence. Glimmer tried to control her impatience. How long would they be left alone? It was surely night by now—was that a good sign? A whole night to try and escape? Or were her captors merely waiting for the cover of darkness before moving her somewhere else?

‘I have an idea.’

Glimmer looked up. ‘Go on.’

There came the sound of fabric scraping against stone. ‘Lean against my back.’ The voice was closer now. Steadier.

‘Why?’

A sigh. ‘Just do it.’

It was awkward. Glimmer had never quite appreciated how much her hands did for her: how they could see for her when her eyes could not. She managed it eventually, though, trying to ignore the strangeness of being so close to someone she could not see, someone who only existed as a voice in the dark. ‘Now what?’

‘Can you reach my hands?’

More fumbling. Glimmer could reach, just about, and demonstrated as much by interlacing their fingers. There was a comfort in that, too: the other prisoner, whoever she was, was an anchor in the darkness.

‘Now try to cut your ropes on my claws.’

‘On your—’ Glimmer’s mouth clicked shut the moment she realised where she had heard that voice before. It was all she could do not to laugh.

‘ _Claws_ , yes.’

There would be time for implications after her hands were free. Glimmer shelved her epiphany and turned to her task. It was easier said than done—the angle was all wrong; her hands kept slipping. Still, she could feel her restraints fraying, thread by thread, and some ten minutes later the final loops of rope fell away. ‘Got ‘em,’ she grunted, stretching her arms with a groan of relief. Her shoulders ached and the skin of her wrists was bruised and tender, but she was _free_. ‘I’m going to try for that lamp, then I’ll help you, all right?’

That mission proved easier than she’d expected. Her hands were almost as good as her eyes would have been as she felt her way back to the corner with the lamp. A minute’s further exploration revealed a small shelf on which was stored a fire striker and a piece of flint. After that it only remained to drag a crate into position, stand on it, and light the lamp.

(Glimmer was familiar with the theory, if not the practice, of lighting lamps. It only took her half a dozen attempts.)

Dim light encroached on the corners of her vision, but—for a moment she panicked. Then she remembered the blindfold, reached up, and sighed in relief as the world reappeared before her. She had been in the dark for an hour at most, and still it felt like a sort of rebirth.

‘All right,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Let me see if I can find a knife.’

However makeshift their cell, their captives had apparently at least made sure to remove any obvious bladed implements. Fortunately, their ingenuity had stopped at the _un_ obvious ones: a good number of the crates were full of bottles. Glimmer selected one—a cheap red wine, her instincts rebelling, even in this situation, at the thought of smashing one of the finer bottles—and hurled it against the opposite wall.

‘What are you _doing?_ ’

Glimmer ignored the question. Bottle shards glittered in the lamplight, bleeding wine from wounds of glass. There was something viscerally pleasing about the destruction, she thought, stepping gingerly around the detritus and selecting a long, particularly jagged piece.

‘Hold still,’ she said, kneeling by the other woman’s side. ‘I don’t want to cut you by accident.’ The glass made short work of the ropes around her ankles, then her wrists. Finally, Glimmer steeled herself, reached up, and removed Catra’s blindfold.

Even under the circumstances, the look on Catra’s face as she froze, mid-stretch, was highly entertaining. ‘ _You!_ ’

‘Good evening,’ Glimmer said, enjoying herself just a little as Catra scrambled backwards. ‘I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Lady Glimmer Brightmoon, at your service.’ She executed a kneeling curtsey.

‘I know who you are,’ Catra spat. ‘And I know it’s _your fault_ I’m down here.’ She staggered to her feet. ‘Why are you here? To _gloat_?’

Glimmer stared at her. ‘Christ. If I’d known you’d react like this I’d have left you tied up.’

‘ _Why are you here?_ ’ Catra repeated, and it didn’t take an oracle to identify the desperation in her voice. She took a step forward, winced, and clutched at her side.

Despite herself, Glimmer felt a pang of sympathy. She tried to keep her voice level. ‘I’m here because whoever locked _you_ up wanted me, too. We’re in the same boat, Catra, all right?’ She paused. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Just a scratch,’ Catra hissed. ‘What do you mean, _we’re in the same boat?_ Why would they arrest _you_?’

‘ _Arrest?_ Look around you! This isn’t a _cell_. We’re in someone’s _house!_ If anything, it’s _your_ fault that _I’m_ here!’

Catra opened her mouth. No sound came out. Her tail swept an arc behind her. Glimmer wished she knew what that meant. Anxiety? Confusion? Anger? Adora would have known, she was sure.

Long seconds passed. Glimmer made herself tamp down her irritation. _Same boat_ , she reminded herself. There was no point antagonising Catra any more than necessary.

‘What’s happening?’ Catra said at last. Her voice was so tightly controlled as to verge on breaking entirely.

‘I’m not sure,’ Glimmer said carefully. There was a dangerous balance, here, to be placating without coming across as patronising. (Unlike the nuances of tail-language, it didn’t take a lifelong friendship to guess that Catra would respond poorly to being patronised.) ‘But I can tell you what I know. Maybe we can figure it out.’

Catra perched herself on the edge of a barrel without once taking her eyes off Glimmer. ‘Tell me.’

‘Last night, someone broke into our townhouse and stole the Moonstone.’

Glimmer watched Catra carefully. Finding her locked up in a cellar certainly supported Adora’s theory, and here was a chance to confirm it—but if Catra was surprised, she didn’t show it. ‘Of course they did.’ She barked out a laugh. ‘And you think I did it.’

‘My _mother_ thinks you did it. What I _know_ is that you did, in fact, break in. I haven’t made my mind up on the other part.’

Catra glanced at the floor. ‘Adora found the sword, then.’

Perversely, Glimmer found that the lack of a denial made her more inclined to trust Catra. ‘You left it in her bed. Of course she found it.’

‘Fair point.’ Catra’s tail had gone still, curled around her legs. ‘All right. What else?’

‘My mother sent someone to Frightley’s townhouse to arrest you—’

‘Charming.’

‘—but you weren’t there. The Earl wrote a letter instead. In it, he claimed you were the culprit.’

Catra’s head jerked up. ‘You’re lying.’

‘I’m not—’

‘ _You’re lying_.’

The intensity in Catra’s voice made Glimmer reconsider another denial. ‘I didn’t see the letter myself,’ she said instead. ‘But that’s what I was told.’

Catra’s claws were gouging lines in the barrel. ‘You have to be lying,’ she whispered. ‘If you’re not, my life is over.’

Glimmer froze. ‘Catra,’ she began, but in truth she had no notion of what to say. ‘Is there something I can—'

‘ _Stop_. You’ve done more than enough. Just—let me think.’

Every instinct Glimmer had, every shred of dislike she’d inherited, told her to press the issue, to prove to Catra, once and for all, that her benefactor was a cruel man, an evil man.

She retreated to the other side of the cellar.

Time passed. Catra was perfectly motionless on her barrel, staring at the ceiling. The harsh shadows of the lamplight gave her something of the manner of an oil painting, all contrasts in light and dark. For the first few minutes, Glimmer didn’t take her eyes off her: but as it became clear that Catra truly was deep in thought, that she did not intend to leap from her vantage and attack Glimmer the moment her attention wandered, Glimmer allowed herself to think of other things.

She occupied herself by conducting a brief inventory. She had on her nothing but the clothes she’d been wearing and the shard of glass she’d used to free Catra, which she placed—carefully—on top of a crate. In a fight it would be as liable to injure her as her opponent, but it was, she supposed, better than nothing.

A random sampling of the crates yielded nothing more interesting than the cheap bottles she’d already discovered. There was a bottle rack in the corner, a brief examination of which revealed that Frightley, villain though he was, possessed moderately acceptable taste in wine and spirits. Glimmer briefly considered breaking open some of the scotch, but she could not quite bring herself to drink directly from a bottle. (Nor was alcohol, strictly speaking, of much use for planning an escape; but Glimmer was willing to make an exception for the sake of her nerves.)

‘The good news,’ she announced when she was done, ‘is that, if they forget about us, we’ll be well-stocked with root vegetables through to spring. There’s even a few satchels of spices.’

Catra barely moved.

Glimmer sighed. Then she checked a few more barrels for good measure, accidentally knocked over a sack of salt, rattled the door at the top of the stairs in case it had mysteriously unlocked itself, punched it when she found it had not, and topped up the lamp in the corner. And then, when there was nothing left but to admit defeat, she sat down and gave in to boredom.

It was odd: she kept expecting the fear to hit, the anxiety and the stress and the _horror_. She could feel them, just out of sight. They had been held at bay, first by the determination of _doing_ something, then by the sheer frustration of _not_ doing something. Maybe that was for the best. She felt rational, clear-headed. A good state to be in, all things considered—only it would be rather inconvenient if all those half-felt things suddenly fell on her the moment someone appeared at the top of the cellar stairs.

( _Anger_ she had plenty of, and in all directions.)

When Catra finally spoke again, it was so quiet Glimmer barely heard her. ‘It started small.’ Then the silence again, the infuriating silence, and Glimmer bit her tongue to keep herself polite. ‘Little things,’ Catra went on eventually. ‘Cheat the Spanish ambassador at a hand of cards. Steal a trinket, something worthless and meaningless. Plant a rumour. Eavesdrop on a private conversation. Thumbing our noses at society, Hordak said. It meant we were _better_. We played by our own rules.’

‘He—he asked you to do those things?’

Catra shrugged. ‘In a way. He _suggested_. How funny, he’d say, if one were to do this or that. It escalated, obviously.’ She snorted. ‘I was always good at finding my way where I didn’t belong. Do you know how _easy_ it is to steal from rich people? You can steal someone’s pearls and they won’t even _notice_ until weeks later.’

Glimmer’s patience finally ran out. ‘The Heartblossom Stone?’

Catra’s ears twitched. ‘I put the damn thing back, didn’t I?’

‘Really? You just, what, _admit_ it? Why are you telling me this?’

‘Look at me!’ Catra’s spread arms encompassed the entirety of the cellar. ‘Is it any wonder I'm feeling self-destructive? _Where do I go from here?_ ’ She was breathing raggedly, and when she continued it was in a quieter voice: ‘That's what you want, isn't it? What you've always wanted. Proof.’

‘No, I—’ Glimmer made a frustrated noise. It would have been too simple, she supposed, to find Catra alone, poor and maligned and innocent. Instead she was—what? _Less_ guilty?

‘That’s what I thought,’ Catra said, her mouth twisted into an unpleasant facsimile of a smile. ‘At least one of us is enjoying this.’

The kinder thing would have been to ask her to stop. But Glimmer didn’t have a choice: any piece of information could be crucial. ‘Anything else?’

Catra barely even hesitated. ‘After that it was information. He asked me to steal documents from Princess Frosta.’

 _That_ was interesting. It was the sort of thing a spy would do, wasn’t it? ‘What documents?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t get them.’ Catra’s smirk was slightly too forced to be believable. ‘Adora did a rather good job of distracting me.’

Glimmer ignored the provocation. She felt no jealousy towards Catra—how exhausting it must be, maintaining a relationship like that! ‘And last night?’

‘Last night I said no.’

There was absolutely no reason for her to lie. ‘Why?’

‘Why do you think? I couldn’t do that to Adora.’

‘I thought you hated her after the Regent’s Ball.’

Catra laughed. For a change, it even sounded genuine. ‘You really don’t understand us if you think that’s true.’

‘I understand more than you think,’ Glimmer snapped.

‘Oh yes?’

‘I understand that Frightley set you up!’

A chill settled over the two of them, as if the cold stone walls were encroaching on their little bubble of light. ‘You can’t know that,’ Catra said quietly. Her façade had fallen away as quickly as she’d raised it. She looked so small now, perched on her barrel, and Glimmer thought it was a glimpse of what Adora saw in her: not the prickly exterior but the vulnerable person within. ‘I’m not stupid,’ she added. ‘I _know_ Hordak isn’t necessarily a good person. But he wouldn’t betray his own people. He looks after us.’

‘He manipulates you,’ Glimmer said.

‘Of course he manipulates us! It’s what all powerful people do.’

‘The fact that you know it doesn’t make it _right!_ ’

Catra stared her down. ‘You don’t know what you’re—’

‘Did he know you were going to return the sword? That you’d be in the house last night?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Did he _encourage_ you to do it?’

‘That doesn’t prove anything!’

Glimmer had no proof, it was true. But what else made sense? ‘I caught a glimpse of the carriage that brought me here,’ she said. ‘It was black with gold trim.’

‘So? Plenty of carriages look like that. And why would he even risk using his own carriage?’

‘Because he didn’t plan this! You gave him an opportunity to get rid of you and he took it.’

Catra hopped off the barrel and stalked towards Glimmer, her tail lashing. ‘All right then,’ she growled. ‘If you have all the answers—tell me _why_. Why would he do this? I did everything he asked of me. I was very, very good at it. _Why_ would he get rid of me?’

Glimmer set her jaw. ‘Because you let Adora distract you.’

‘Don’t you _dare_ ,’ Catra snarled, and all of a sudden she was right up in Glimmer’s personal space, trapping her against a pile of crates, drawing her arm back—and yet, when the blow came, it fell not on Glimmer’s face but on the wood two inches to her left. ‘Don’t you _dare_ think what I feel for Adora is a weakness.’

‘I don’t think that,’ Glimmer shot back. ‘Frightley does.’ It was unnerving being face-to-face with Catra and her otherworldly eyes, but she didn’t look away. ‘I think he turned on you,’ she went on, heart pounding. ‘And I think we’re in his townhouse. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But maybe we can agree to worry about that _later_ , and focus on getting _out_ of here.’ She paused. ‘They won’t expect us to be free. We can take them when they come for us. Or would you rather stay here all nice and meek?’

Catra glared at her a few seconds more. Then she said, ‘Fine,’ and the moment snapped like brittle leather.

Glimmer sat down and spent a few minutes breathing slowly and evenly. Catra had moved away, back to her perch, as if their altercation had meant nothing. Is that what it was like to be Adora? To have that fire directed at her, not in anger but in love? ‘Better you than me,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Glimmer answered automatically. Then she grimaced. There was something about being locked in a room with Catra that inspired a certain level of unwarranted antagonism. ‘Just—thinking about Adora.’

If Glimmer had expected that admission to soften Catra, she was disappointed. ‘Speaking of Adora,’ Catra said, dragging out the words. ‘How am I doing?’ A measure of swagger had returned to her tone.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She must talk about me all the time. Am I living up to expectations?’

‘I would say I was expecting you to be more smug,’ Glimmer said, ‘but you just rectified that.’

Catra’s grin was unsettlingly toothy. ‘She does, though, doesn’t she?’

Glimmer, feeling contrary, said, ‘If it’s validation you want, you’re not getting it from me.’

‘Big words, coming from the girl who stole my best friend.’

‘I didn’t _steal_ anyone. I didn’t even know you existed until the start of the year.’

‘Because that makes it _so_ much better.’

‘Catra,’ Glimmer ground out, ‘if you knew what went on between Adora and I, you’d want her to listen to me _more_ , not less.’

‘How on Earth do you figure that?’

‘I’ve been nothing but encouraging. Who do you think told her to follow you, after your dance at the masquerade?’

Catra hopped off her barrel and advanced a pace or two. ‘You think that makes up for her choosing you over me?’

‘What are you going to do, punch a poor crate again?’ Glimmer stood up, drawing herself up the way her mother had taught her to in the face of someone taller than she was. ‘Do you even know what Adora wants?’

‘A hell of a lot better than you do.’

‘She doesn’t _want_ to choose—'

‘She’s trying to have it both ways!’

‘Of course she is!’ Glimmer shouted. ‘She cares about you and she cares about me and she doesn’t want to throw _either_ of us away. Why is that so hard to understand?’

‘Because,’ Catra said through gritted teeth, ‘sometimes you _have_ to choose. One life or the other.’

‘Is that so? From where I'm standing, the difference between you and me is that I've been trying to help her get what she _wants_.’

‘Give it a rest. You're _perfect_. She’s never going to throw you away. What can I offer her that you can’t? Especially now I'm apparently a fucking _fugitive_.’

‘Freedom,’ Glimmer said without missing a beat.

That gave Catra pause. ‘What?’

‘What do you think _I_ can offer her? She’d always be in my shadow. In my _family's_ shadow. I can't court her, not openly, and one day her patience is going to run out. But here’s the thing. Maybe _I_ don’t want this life. Maybe Adora is _right_ to refuse the choice. Maybe both of us need to take a leaf out of her book!’

‘And how’s that supposed to work, exactly? You’re your mother’s daughter. The perfect heiress. And what am I, in the end? Just a fucking thief.’

Glimmer said, ‘I have an aunt.’

‘Am I supposed to guess what that means?’

‘She’s young. She could inherit. If I decided not to.’

Catra gave her a strange look. ‘You can’t possibly mean that.’

‘Probably I don’t.’ Glimmer shrugged. ‘But I don’t know that yet. I’m willing to find out.’ She examined her fingernails. ‘This whole time I’ve been telling Adora that the rules don’t matter. I don’t think she really understands. But you do, don’t you?’

‘Of course the rules don’t fucking matter.’ Catra bared her teeth. ‘You couldn’t have had this revelation a little earlier? Even if you’re serious—and I don’t for one second believe you are—it’s too late. I gave Adora every chance. She rejected me every time it mattered. And now your mother wants me locked up and, according to you, the only man who could have protected me actually _did_ lock me up. What am I supposed to do, _Lady Glimmer_? I’m not you. What happens to me when we get out of here?’

Glimmer said, ‘About that.’

‘ _What_ about that?’

‘Did you take Adora’s innocence last night?’

Catra laughed incredulously. ‘I'm sorry, did I _what?_ ’

Strictly speaking, there was no _need_ to have phrased it that way—except for the fact that Glimmer knew exactly how Catra saw her. She was the entitled rich girl who’d swanned into Catra’s life and stolen her dearest friend: prim, proper, never prurient, and most certainly not someone who would say, ‘Did you _fuck_ her last night?’

Adora’s description of what she planned to tell the magistrate had been strategically silent on the matter of truth. Privately, Glimmer had suspected it for a fabrication, but there had still been room for little doubts.

Those doubts were eliminated most effectively by the way Catra spluttered in response. She would have owned the truth, surely, crowed it like a particularly arrogant cockerel. The lie, though—the lie left her wordless.

‘I assume that means no,’ Glimmer said.

‘Why would you even—’

‘Because Adora said you did! She stood before a magistrate and swore that you couldn’t have been the thief because you’d spent all night in her bed.’

Catra went utterly still. To say she looked stunned would have been understatement of the first degree: the expression on her face was too complex for one emotion, too real to be anything but authentic. She sat down, hard, right there on the floor.

‘It’s in the court records. It’ll be all over London by the end of the week, if I’m any judge.’

‘But why would she…’ Catra trailed off. ‘She spent so much time worrying about her fucking reputation, and now _this_? Couldn’t she have—earlier—it could have been so _easy!_ ’

Glimmer sat down next to Catra and, against her better judgement, reached out for one of her hands. Catra made as if to shrug her off, but the motion was half-hearted. ‘I’ve come to realise something about Adora,’ Glimmer said. ‘This whole time, she’s been looking for a world where she can have both: her old life and her new life. Me _and_ you. It was never about replacing you, you know? She’s tried so, so hard not to choose one of us over the other.’

Catra’s eyes were shut tight. Glimmer thought she could see the seeds of tears. ‘But why _now_? Why protect me _now_? Nothing has changed!’ She laughed, half-crazed. ‘She’s ruined _herself!_ I didn’t even have to _help_ in the end!’

‘Because now is when you needed protection.’

Catra pulled her hand away, wiped away tears, glanced at Glimmer, then the wall. ‘Typical,’ she said. It came out half-choked, and she cleared her throat. ‘Christ, but she’s selfish, isn’t she?’

Glimmer smiled in spite of herself. ‘A little. But you were being selfish, too, when you tried to, er, ruin her.’

‘That was different,’ Catra said, with a great deal of certainty. Then she paused. ‘I don’t even know what to do with this information. What the _fuck_ is supposed to happen now?’

‘Well,’ said Glimmer, who had been giving the matter some thought ever since Adora had outlined her plan. ‘I’ve been thinking a Grand Tour would be just the thing. I hear Paris is beautiful this time of year.’

‘In _November_?’

‘Paris is beautiful every time of year if you’re a young woman fleeing scandal with her quasi-criminal lover.’

Catra, unfazed by _criminal_ , flinched at the word _lover_. ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘It’s fantasy. Why would she give you up _now?_ ’

‘She wouldn’t. I’d come too.’ Glimmer pursed her lips. ‘Maybe Bow would be interested, too. It would be fun. We could all be happy. I’m sure I can concoct a reason to convince my mother. One can get quite far in Europe on the good word of Angella Brightmoon.’

‘You’re—’ Catra’s voice dripped disbelief. ‘You’re actually _serious_.’

She _was_ serious. That came as somewhat of a surprise even to Glimmer. She liked plans; she liked being proactive. That didn’t necessarily mean all her plans were viable, or that she always wanted to see them through.

This one was, though. She should have seen it earlier: Adora had spent a year stuck between two worlds, unsure how to reconcile them; and no matter how much encouragement Glimmer provided, it was unreasonable to have expected Adora to solve that problem on her own.

But it had never, in the end, been up to her alone.

‘Adora wants a world with both of us in it.’ Glimmer’s smile dared Catra to agree. ‘Let’s give her one.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when I said these chapters would be shorter? all I can say is: lol. just two chapters + an epilogue left - we are definitely in the home stretch now. :)
> 
> anyway, this was a blast to write! this chapter was one of my very first ideas for the fic. in a fic that ships catradora and glimmadora but _not_ catra/glimmer (do we have a name for that?) I really wanted to have a/the focal chapter be catra and glimmer stuck in a room together. their relationship hasn't been the focus, but it's still important. it was also super fun writing glimmer in a more aggressive role :D
> 
> and I hope y'all enjoyed the change of pov. let me know what you thought! <3


	15. Catra—June 1815

_In which Miss Weaver executes a spiteful plan_

Afterwards Catra could never quite identify where it had started to go wrong.

There was before—

_‘Paris.’_

_‘Lisbon.’_

_‘Venice?’_

_‘Morocco!’_

_‘That’s a country, Catra.’_

_‘So? I want to see the whole country!’_

_‘Fine, then. Egypt.’_

_‘Agra. And Peking.’_

_‘Which are nowhere near each other. Honestly, have you ever even looked at an atlas?’_

_Catra stuck her tongue out. ‘Your turn.’_

_‘Japan.’_

_‘Pretty sure only the Dutch are allowed into Japan. Honestly, have you ever read a history book?’ Catra saw Adora’s playful swat coming and intercepted her arm mid-motion. ‘Resorting to violence?’ she said mockingly. ‘What would Miss Weaver say?’_

_Adora glared at her. ‘And how are you proposing to fund this gallivanting around the world, anyway?’_

_‘Oh, you know. Chicanery.’_

_‘The sort of chicanery you could find yourself transported for?’_

_‘Australia’s on the list too.’ Catra grinned. ‘Why shouldn’t the Crown pick up the bill?’_

_Adora groaned. ‘You’re going to be the death of me one day.’_

_‘The transportation of you,’ Catra corrected, which comment made Adora laugh so hard that Catra had to raise her head until the other girl had quieted and Catra could re-settle herself in her lap. It was a warm enough evening for them to have snuck out onto the roof, and the first sprinkles of stars had begun to fill the sky around Adora’s face. ‘Anywhere but England,’ Catra added idly. ‘I don’t want to be stuck here my whole life.’_

_Adora didn’t reply, but her hands were stroking Catra’s ears just the way she liked it, and Catra relaxed into the night falling around them like a shroud._

_‘I’d be purring, too, if I could,’ Adora said, an unknowable amount of time later._

_Catra hadn’t even realised she was purring. ‘What can I say?’ She raised a hand to the nape of Adora’s neck and Adora melted into the touch as if it were she and not Catra who took after the feline race. ‘You make me happy.’_

And there was after.

_‘Tomorrow we are to have a most distinguished guest.’ Miss Weaver paused for dramatic effect. ‘The Duchess of Brightmoon.’_

_Catra, who had been expecting something like that, made sure her sigh was heard above the excited murmurs that filled the dormitory._

_‘You will all be on your best behaviour. The Duchess expects nothing but the most well-brought up girls. Is that clear?’_

_A chorus of affirmatives. Catra barely heard them: across the room, Miss Weaver’s gaze was trained on her as unerringly as a hunter stalks a deer._

_She needn’t have worried._

_‘You’re going to skip it, aren’t you?’ Adora said, later, when the lights were out._

_‘And you’re not.’_

_Adora shifted against her back. ‘I'm not,’ she agreed. Catra didn’t say anything. Then Adora added, ‘It doesn’t mean anything. Remember when I met the boys for the first time? Remember how anxious you were? That turned out fine.’_

_She was right, Catra told herself. That had turned out fine._

_This would too._

(Only nothing was ever as straightforward as before-and-after. Adora hadn’t changed between one moment and the next; she’d shown some things, hidden others, but all of it was _her_ , the hidden and the visible. Catra knew that. She knew the temptation to pinpoint one moment, to identify and blame it for everything that had gone wrong, was nothing but wishful thinking; and yet intensely tempting it remained.)

Afterwards Catra suspected the issue had a deeper cause. They’d never talked much about what they truly wanted, not out loud. It seemed too obvious to be worth discussing. They wanted each other; that was the important thing.

But perhaps Adora had wanted other things, too; things she hadn’t admitted to, because to do so would be to question the unspoken foundation of their life. Perhaps Catra should have recognised that, addressed it, found a way to navigate it peacefully.

Perhaps Adora had been ready to jump for years; perhaps all she’d needed was the chance to leave her.

(Or perhaps a single person was insufficient to carry the burden of your whole life, no matter how much you loved them.)

All those thoughts came too late, of course.

*

It happened on the day that word reached London of victory: victory at Waterloo, victory in the war, final, long-awaited, total victory.

‘Look!’ Adora said, jabbing at the newspaper Miss Weaver had distributed throughout the school. ‘It says here the Duchess of Brightmoon is to be put in charge of Bonaparte’s imprisonment. “To ensure his captivity, once and for all, that nothing like Elba can happen again.” And she was _here_!’

‘Whatever,’ Catra said, studiously ignoring the newspaper Adora was trying to thrust under her nose. ‘She’s just another stuck-up noblewoman.’

‘She is _not_ ,’ Adora said. ‘She was a general!’

‘So?’

‘So—so you can’t be stuck-up if you’re a general!’

‘Sure you can.’

‘But she’s _not_ , I know it.’

‘ _How?_ ’ Catra snapped. Her hackles were up and she couldn’t quite say why _this_ was needling her as much as it was, but everything seemed—off-kilter. Ever so slightly wrong. Uncanny. ‘How do you know that, Adora?’

Adora balked a little before Catra’s aggression—but only a little. ‘I need to tell you something.’

She sounded apologetic and excited all at once. The shapeless anxiety swirling around Catra began to crystallise around that combination. ‘What?’

‘The day the duchess came to visit—well, it turns out she wanted to speak to a few of the girls.’ Adora swallowed. ‘Me included.’

Catra groaned. ‘Tell me you didn’t take her up on it.’

‘I was curious!’ Adora said defensively.

‘Ugh.’ Catra raised her eyes heavenwards, but all the nonchalance in the world couldn’t keep the edge of bitterness out of her voice. ‘I thought we agreed we didn’t want anything to do with people like her.’

‘Well…’

And that was when something changed for Catra. It was like that moment when, having thrown some playful barb at a friend, you realise they did not think it playful at all; you realise you had hurt them, unintentionally but truly, and you wonder how many times you had hurt them in the past and been none the wiser. It was the moment Catra realised Adora might want something different.

‘Well _what_?’ she said sharply.

‘She wants to adopt me,’ Adora said, her words all but tripping over themselves in her rush to get them out. ‘And I said maybe but only if you could come too and Miss Weaver said she’d ask and—’ She bit her lip. ‘The duchess is coming back next week. On Sunday. If she says yes we could leave with her.’

It was as if Catra’s entire life flipped on its axis. The start of a discussion, that she could have accepted—a _what-if_ , a persuasion, a debate—but this? An ultimatum? _Next week_? She tried to get her voice under control. ‘And you didn’t think you should _tell_ me?’

‘I am telling you—’

‘ _Before_ you went offering me up to a woman I’ve never even met?’

Adora shrunk back. ‘I thought—I thought we could be together, and…’

‘And _what_?’ Catra’s hands formed and unformed fists. She reached for the newspaper still in Adora’s lap and began to crumple it into a ball. ‘ _How many times_ have I said that I don’t _want_ that kind of life? How many times have we—have we _laughed_ at all the stupid rules? And now you want to live like that?’

‘I thought that was just talk,’ Adora whispered, her eyes wide. ‘I thought it was just… a way for us to feel better because we knew we could never, you know…’

‘I’m glad to know _you’ve_ been settling for second-best this whole time,’ Catra said, biting each word off before it could infect her with its poison. ‘But I _meant_ it. You’re a fool if you think we could ever be free with someone like _her_. You want to be together? Let’s be together. Just you and me. We don’t need a fucking _duchess_. We had plans!’

‘We had fantasies!’ Adora shot back. ‘This is real! This is _good_.’

Catra stood. Her whole body was trembling with—she wasn’t sure what. Not _rage_ ; that was too easy. ‘ _You_ ,’ she hissed, ‘can throw yourself at the duchess’ mercy all you want. But it won’t be with me.’

‘Catra—’

‘ _Don’t_.’ Catra took a ragged breath. ‘I thought I knew what you wanted. I thought you knew what _I_ wanted. But if you cared about what I wanted, you’d never have talked to her.’

‘Catra…’

‘Here.’ Catra shoved past Adora, dropping the crumpled-up ball of newspaper in her lap. ‘Enjoy the victory.’

Then she left.

*

Catra successfully avoided speaking to Adora for the full week that followed.

She evicted herself from the dormitory, pilfering sheets from the linen closet and building a nest for herself on the roof. That had always been her place more than Adora’s—a shared place, yes, but it had been Catra who’d explored it, Catra who relished the openness of the sky spread out before her. Had that been a hint? Had Adora always craved the enclosed space of a plush townhouse?

She tried to avoid those kinds of thoughts. Sometimes she succeeded.

She came down for lessons. She spoke only when called on. She ate in silence. Then she retreated again, hour after hour, day after day.

The worst of it was that Catra knew she ought to talk to Adora. She knew the tension between them wasn’t final: something would give, eventually.

How easy to delay, though: how easy to wait until the day of the meeting, to see what the duchess would say. Because surely she would reject Catra—surely she would not take _two_ wards. And then? Then they would know where they stood. Then their bond would finally be tested.

The Sunday dawned beautiful and warm. The other girls dispersed almost immediately after breakfast, off on their own little errands; she did not see Adora. She returned to the roof and waited.

When midday passed without the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones, Catra began to reconsider. Her instincts were screaming. Something was _wrong_. Yet stubbornness was a mighty taskmaster, and it was not until the second hour of the afternoon that she swallowed her pride and made her way down in search of Adora.

The dormitory was gloomy. Even so, she could tell something was wrong immediately: their bunk beds had been stripped of linen, both of them, and Adora’s meagre possessions—which she typically kept hidden in a pillowcase—were gone. The _sword_ was gone.

Catra fell to her knees beside the bed. The thin mattress was scratchy against her cheek, but she didn’t move, eyes tracing the carvings in the wood of the bedframe, over and over. She did not think.

She wasn’t sure how long it took for Miss Weaver to find her. It could have been evening—but no, her body was only a little stiff. Half an hour at most.

‘Catra.’ Miss Weaver’s voice was carefully neutral, which meant it ranked among the fondest greetings Catra had ever received from her. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

Catra said nothing. Miss Weaver moved out of sight; then the mattress depressed slightly with the weight of her sitting down.

‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

Again, that neutral tone, as if Miss Weaver was trying to erase years of animosity. It was all Catra could do not to laugh.

‘I’m sure Adora told you, but the Duchess of Brightmoon came to see me today. I relayed Adora’s request, and unfortunately the duchess made it clear she could only take one.’ Miss Weaver paused, as if Catra did not already know this, had not already arrived at every possible conclusion. ‘Adora left with her.’

‘She wouldn’t,’ Catra said, because it was expected of her. Her voice was hoarser than she expected.

‘It came as a surprise to me as well,’ Miss Weaver said, and it took Catra several moments to identify the thing in her voice as _gentleness_. ‘She wanted to tell you herself, but the duchess insisted they leave immediately.’

Had she expected anything else, when she’d found the beds abandoned? And still it was hard to hear. Hard to have the final confirmation of a fact so huge she could barely feel the edges of it. If she’d been less proud, less stubborn, if she’d sought Adora out earlier—

That way lay madness.

Catra crawled into the bed, curled up, and started to cry.

*

‘Catra?’

Catra was beginning to find she’d preferred Miss Weaver’s disinterest, her anger, anything but this fake concern.

‘There now, my dear, make yourself respectable, won’t you?’

Catra stared at Miss Weaver. _Make yourself respectable_. That was an order she’d heard before—not like this, though, not with the language of _caring_ attached. Miss Weaver did not care about Catra. That was a truth she’d accepted long ago. It was enough to make her suspicious—and so she did what she always did when the shape of a social situation was unclear: she poked at it. ‘Why the fuck do you care?’

Miss Weaver’s mouth twitched. ‘I know this must be difficult for you,’ she began.

‘ _Why do you care?’_

‘Neither of us expected this from Adora, I'm sure.’ Miss Weaver smile was strained. ‘But sometimes you have no choice but to play the hand you’re dealt.’

Ah, there it was. Miss Weaver choosing to let the profanity pass her by had been unbelievable enough, but this explained things. She’d been counting on Adora, just like Catra had, and they’d both been let down—and now Miss Weaver was stuck with Catra. There was a certain sick irony to it.

‘I know you’re upset,’ Miss Weaver went on, ‘but I find in times like this that looking to the future can be helpful. A fresh start, if you like.’ She paused. ‘And there’s someone here who’d like to meet you.’

All Catra's reasons for refusing were obsolete. All the instincts telling her to hate Miss Weaver, to mistrust Miss Weaver, were misaligned for the new, Adora-less world. All that was left was the need for something, anything, to distract her from the worst day of her life.

_Why are you doing this?_

And the answer she gave herself, harsh and deliberately hurtful: _why_ not _?_

Which is how Catra found herself in Miss Weaver’s office, face-to-face with the immaculately-dressed man behind the desk. There was something like a smile on his face as he rose to greet her.

‘Hello, Catra,’ he said. ‘My name is Hordak.’

*

Afterwards, Miss Weaver bade Catra good-bye. Then she returned to the school, instructed the maids to dress the bed and replace Adora’s possessions, and settled in to wait.

She had bad news, after all. It was best that Adora heard it from her first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last of the flashbacks! something a little shorter before the end, which I expect will be another monster.
> 
> (a quick refresher, since it's been a couple chapters since this was established and I imagine one or two of you might be confused - Adora spent the day away from the school, on Miss Weaver's suggestion, so that she could pull off this plan wherein Catra and Adora both think they've been abandoned by the other.)
> 
> this ended up a lot more fragmented than I'd intended, but I kind of like it. I like the feeling of memory being unreliable and never really knowing why something happened the way it did. what did you guys think? let me know in the comments, and I hope you're all excited for the big finale! :D


	16. Catra—November 1817

_In which escapes are made, pasts forgiven, and futures planned; featuring a display of derring-do on the part of Glimmer_

The Brightmoon girl knew how to weave a pretty story, Catra would give her that.

For about five seconds she teetered on the brink of giving in. Then she laughed. The sound made the wound in her side hurt, but she gritted her teeth and laughed anyway, to show Brightmoon exactly what she thought of her ridiculous plan. She _had_ a life, a perfectly good life, and she had no intention of throwing it away.

Not unless the life threw her away first.

‘Keep your fantasies,’ Catra said and turned her back.

Brightmoon was saying something else. Catra tuned her out. Pretty stories were just that: stories.

What next? That was a subject worthy of the currency of thought. Catra did not think Brightmoon was lying—only possessed of a rare talent for delusion—which meant, at least, that she was a free woman. In a manner of speaking.

All she had to do was get out of the cellar and everything would be fine. Did she believe that? She wasn’t sure.

She was pacing almost without realising it, following the perimeter of the cellar. It felt colder there, as if the damp chill of the stones had a stronger hold away from the centre, away from the little open space where the Brightmoon girl sat, still fuming.

Catra rarely minded the cold. She forged on, shoving aside the odd sack of root vegetables, intent on staying flush with the wall the whole way round, as if she were expecting a secret passage to open up at any moment.

What she found, in the end, was neither secret nor, strictly speaking, a passage. It was a dumbwaiter.

The first thought that struck her was to climb inside and escape that way, but that was a vain hope: she was flexible, but not _that_ flexible. The thing was sized for a tray of food or a small sack of vegetables, not a person.

Her second thought was to ignore it and move on, but that seemed wrong, too. Here was a link to the outside world: if there was anything to be found in the cellar, this was it.

She stood and waited for the third thought. The hatch was dusty, as if no one had used the dumbwaiter for days or more. Only—Catra frowned. The _hatch_ was dusty, but she could see through the bars into the dumbwaiter itself, and it looked polished and clean.

As if someone had sent it down to the cellar. Recently.

Catra stood staring at the hatch for far longer than she should have. It became a symbol of something in her mind. Opening it meant _doing_ something, _striving_ for something, hoping there was something for her beyond this cellar.

Leaving it meant giving up.

Catra ground her teeth. Then she slid the hatch open—and waited. Brightmoon couldn’t have failed to notice the sound, but she seemed to have stuck her nose right back out of Catra’s actions. That was good. Catra worked better alone.

There was nothing in the dumbwaiter but a small scrap of paper. Catra picked it up, angled it towards the faint lamplight, and read:

_C: If you are down there, please send a bottle of my favourite up to the second floor._

There was no signature, but there didn’t need to be. There was only one person Catra knew who wrote with such looping letters, as if every word imbued the paper with a little fragment of joy.

It took her twenty minutes to find the right bottle.

‘What are you doing?’ Brightmoon asked halfway into the search, either not bothering or failing to hide the suspicion in her voice.

‘Looking for a drink.’ Catra grunted as she levered another crate open. ‘If I may have your _permission_ , of course.’

Brightmoon didn’t say anything. That was fine. Catra was used to silent judgement.

She found what she was looking for in a small stack of crates piled next to the wine rack. Drawing out one of the small bottles of dry oloroso sherry, Catra took a moment to consider what it meant that the crates were there at all.

Oloroso was a very specific preference. What were the odds the average townhouse would stock it?

Well. No worse than the odds that an average townhouse was home to a person with loopy, cheerful handwriting, she supposed. Still—she had no _proof_. Not yet.

She returned to the dumbwaiter and loaded her newfound cargo. Catra had never operated the device before, but the controls were easy enough: a button for each possible destination. An Entrapta original, that was, much more advanced than the simple manual dumbwaiters most houses possessed. How many such models had Entrapta installed? A few. Catra remembered her talking about it. It didn’t mean anything.

She slid the hatch shut and hit the button for the second floor. There was a brief delay—then the clockwork mechanism kicked in and the dumbwaiter began its slow ascent.

It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before it rattled its way back down again, almost as if someone had been waiting at the other end with baited breath.

This time there was a whole sheet of paper, and beneath it something bundled up in a cloth.

Catra read the letter first. It said:

_Catra—_

_I can hardly believe that worked, and that you are truly down there! It was all I could think to do, but I had little enough hope for success. After this is through we must toast. How convenient that I have acquired this bottle of sherry._

_I wish I could spend more time on pleasantries. But I cannot, and so the facts:_

_Hordak says you burgled the Brightmoon residence. Further, he says that, realising you had given yourself away, you panicked and kidnapped Lady Glimmer to use as a hostage. I do not know if anyone believes him. Needless to say, I do not. He has locked the rest of us in—for our own protection, he says. Lady Entrapta & I are stuck in the parlour on the third floor._

_I do not think he planned this. He is hosting a gathering tonight in the first-floor dining room. If you escape you should have little trouble eluding him._

_I wish we could do more and hope we have done enough._

_Your friend, always,_

_Scorpia_

_PS: Turn the page._

Catra turned the page. The diagram and instructions on the back were in a different hand, just as neat but far more functional, with none of the embellishments Scorpia was so fond of. Catra had never had cause to read Lady Entrapta’s handwriting before, but there was no doubt it was hers.

After that she opened the bundle. The instructions had been detailed; she knew exactly what to expect; but she did it anyway, to see with her own eyes the evidence.

Then she sat down, wrapped her arms around herself, and breathed through the rage.

It was one thing to feel defeated, to have thought herself a prisoner of the law, caught in the act, with hope for nothing but a life behind bars—that had made her self-destructive. So what, then, if Hordak had also betrayed her? It hardly mattered.

Now, presented with the evidence of Adora’s love and of Scorpia’s friendship, it was different. She had been given something to live for—and at the same time she had been given the final evidence of Hordak’s betrayal, the final destruction of the very life she might have returned to.

It was the sort of situation that invited bold solutions.

And Glimmer Brightmoon had nothing if not a bold solution.

Catra stood up, told her pride to sit down, and brought the bundle to where the other girl was sitting. ‘Can you fire a pistol?’

Brightmoon blinked, twice. ‘Why do you ask?’

Catra knelt down and unrolled the bundle with a flourish.

‘Where did you—where did you _get_ that?’ Brightmoon’s eyes had gone very wide and more than a little covetous. It _was_ a nice weapon, if one was a connoisseur, but Catra had never felt the need to arm herself with anything but what nature had provided.

‘A friend,’ Catra said casually. She picked Scorpia’s pistol up by the barrel and held it out. ‘Now, can you fire it? I never learnt.’

Brightmoon eyed the gun warily. ‘Is this a change of heart?’

‘Something like that.’ Catra closed her eyes and forced the pride back down again. ‘Let’s just say denial wasn’t suiting me, all right?’ She paused. ‘Do you know how to use this thing or not?’

‘My mother was an officer in the army. Of course I know how to use it.’

‘Great,’ Catra said. ‘Then take it.’

For a moment longer, Brightmoon stared at her as if expecting the gun to turn into a serpent in her hands. Then she took it.

‘Do you have everything you need?’

Brightmoon sorted through the remainder of the items in the bundle. There were two identical brass flasks, a small pouch of ammunition, a fuse, and several scraps of paper and cloth. ‘I’ll only have a couple of shots. And there’s no ramrod. Or measures. But I can make do.’

‘Then load it,’ Catra said, unfolding one of the squares of paper in front of her. ‘I’m going to get us out of here.’

Brightmoon paused in the act of examining the pistol. ‘How, exactly?’

‘You’ll see.’ Catra grinned and gestured at the pair of powder flasks. ‘I just need you to tell me which of these is gunpowder.’

‘That one,’ Brightmoon said after she’d poured out a small measure of each. Then, as if the question had only registered with a delay, she squinted at Catra and added, ‘Why?’

‘Don’t worry. I have instructions.’

‘Catra—’

But Catra had already unstoppered the powder flask and poured a generous measure into the middle of her piece of paper. She added the fuse at one end, then rolled the whole thing up like a cigar and twisted the ends closed. ‘Look at that,’ she said, surveying her work. ‘Like a piece of candy.’

‘Be careful with that,’ Brightmoon muttered. ‘Don’t take it anywhere near the lamp.’

‘Oh,’ Catra said, getting up. ‘I shouldn’t go dip it in the oil?’ The look of horror Catra got in reply turned into annoyance as she started to laugh. ‘Give me _some_ credit. I made it this far in life without blowing myself up.’

Her tail swished idly back and forth as she made her way up the stairs. It was a strange sort of good spirit she was in, but good all the same, and made even better when she discovered her gunpowder cigar was a perfect fit for the keyhole. After that it was a simple matter of finding a splinter of wood—easy enough, amidst all the detritus—and lighting it in the lamp flame.

It took Catra four tries to get up the stairs without her fire going out. When she finally succeeded in lighting the fuse, it came as such a surprise she nearly forgot to run for cover—not that she needed much cover in the end, the detonation being disappointingly subdued.

The sound that came after, however—the beautiful, screeching creak of the cellar door swinging open—that was a sound she’d remember for the rest of her life.

*

There were no guards.

That made sense to Catra—Hordak didn’t retain anyone beyond a basic staff. Whatever kidnappers he’d hired that night would never have met his high standards for trustworthiness. He’d have sent them on their way as soon as possible.

There were no guards—and one look at Glimmer’s face revealed she was as disappointed about that as Catra herself.

(Her claws had unsheathed themselves without her even noticing. It took a few seconds’ focus to retract them again.)

‘The side door is that way,’ she said, gesturing down the hall. ‘Through the kitchens. We can be out in five minutes. It’s not far to Grosvenor Square.’

Glimmer didn’t move. ‘I’m sensing an “or”.’

‘ _Or_.’ Catra paused. ‘Or, my friends are trapped on the second floor. And Hordak himself is in the first-floor dining room. It would be… awkward for him if his dinner was interrupted by a supposedly kidnapped girl, don’t you think? In front of all those witnesses?’

Glimmer’s eyes shone with a manic sort of glee. Catra wondered if she knew her finger was caressing the trigger guard of her borrowed pistol. ‘ _Extremely_ awkward.’

‘All right.’ Catra’s heart was pounding. ‘Second floor first. Get everyone out. Then we can pay him a visit.’

Glimmer gestured with the pistol. ‘Lead the way.’

To her surprise, Catra found there was absolutely nothing unnatural about forging common cause with Glimmer Brightmoon. Catra had found a family in London and Hordak had taken it away, just as he’d taken Glimmer from her family. Every inch of the other girl radiated Catra’s own feelings back at her: tightly controlled anger, grim determination—and _excitement_. Hordak had placed his bets. He’d played his cards.

And how he’d have to reckon for it.

Catra made her way away from the kitchens and towards the front of the house. The carpet beneath her feet was thick. She’d never really noticed that before—but then, her feet had never been bare before, her body never aching with the strains of incarceration. It cast the house in an inverted light. Not her home, not any more, but a new place, a foreign place, a _hostile_ place.

(That was a truth she had not quite processed yet. Everything would _change_ , in the next _hour_ , and it would change utterly.)

At the base of the main staircase she motioned Glimmer to silence. Then, slowly, they began their ascent.

The main dining room was at the top of the stairs, and even from halfway up she could tell something was off. The door was ajar; the noise from within was far louder than normal dinner-table conversation could account for. Her ears twitched, straining to make out specifics. Voices raised, at the very edge of intelligibility—and then the tell-tale strike of steel against steel.

She lashed her tail in a silent signal to stop; then, remembering it was Glimmer behind her and not Adora, she repeated the signal with her hand. ‘Someone’s already here,’ she breathed, her voice barely audible even to her. ‘I hear fighting.’

‘If they’re fighting Frightley we have to help,’ Glimmer replied immediately, matching her volume to Catra’s. ‘We can help the others afterwards. They’re not in immediate danger.’

If she wasn’t careful, Catra reflected, agreeing with Glimmer could become habit. ‘Let’s do it.’

‘I have the gun. I’ll go first.’ Glimmer moved up a few steps. ‘Follow my lead.’

Glimmer took the rest of the stairs as if it were her townhouse and she was returning to find it invaded by unpleasant strangers. Catra found herself grinning fiercely. There was something— _right_ —about this, some harmony that thrummed in her veins as they crossed the first-floor landing, as if, for the first time in years, her life was hers and hers alone to live—

Glimmer kicked the door open with a louder thud than such a small person should have been capable of generating.

The dining room was frozen in tableau, as if their entrance had stopped everyone mid-motion. Catra’s eyes darted from side to side, struggling to take everything in: the overturned chairs, the table shoved to one side, the gaggle of confused dinner-guests in one corner. Then her gaze found Adora—Adora who was lying on her back—who was bleeding from multiple cuts—whose sword lay useless inches from her right hand—

The Earl of Frightley had the point of his sword at her throat.

Catra seized up. Whatever had been propelling her through the night, whatever had been making her feel invincibly in charge of her own destiny, vanished. She stood, helpless before the fear in Adora’s eyes like a puppet who had never known the hand of its master.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Everything was—everything was wrong, she needed to go back, redo it, get it right,

‘ _Let. Her. Go.’_

Catra blinked. Glimmer had her gun trained on Hordak—and when had she raised it? Surely nothing could move in the frozen ruin that had become Catra’s life.

‘Lady Glimmer,’ Hordak said. ‘I’m so pleased to see you alive and well and out of the hands of your captors.’

He sounded sincere. He sounded like someone who wasn’t holding the single most precious person in the world at sword-point.

‘I said, _let her go_.’

‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.’ Hordak gestured with the hand that wasn’t holding his sword. ‘This was a duel, nothing more. A settling of accounts over a rather… _unfortunate_ accusation Miss Adora here levelled at me.’

‘If it was a duel, you’ll step back now.’

How could Glimmer’s voice be so steady? How could her _arm_ be so steady? Catra wrapped her own arms around herself in a vain attempt to control her trembling.

(The sword was still there. She imagined she could see it dimpling the skin of Adora’s throat.)

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’

And there it was. Hordak was a man of few words, most of the time, but he knew how to use what words he had. Catra could see so clearly what had happened: the confrontation, the duel, all for the benefit of his guests, the witnesses who could go forth and proclaim his innocence, hard-won through honest combat.

But Glimmer’s presence complicated all that. He no longer had a way out. The words were not enough, and so the sword.

‘Do you imagine,’ Glimmer said, ‘that you can stab faster than I can shoot?’

‘You’d never risk missing,’ Hordak shot back, and for a moment his calm façade dropped. Then his eyes flickered to Catra for the first time and he smiled. ‘I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. Miss Adora was confused, that’s all. You could clear the waters, couldn’t you? Tell everyone what happened. Tell them all how Catra kidnapped you and kept you hostage. How you escaped. It’s as simple as that.’

Catra closed her eyes. It had been too good to be true, in the end, to imagine herself on the same side as someone like Glimmer Brightmoon.

‘She’s no one,’ Hordak went on. ‘Just a thief. An orphan. Is her life worth all this? If not here, the exact same fate will find her somewhere else. One cell is much like another, after all. And the alternative?’ He turned his free hand palm-up, as if offering that alternative up for inspection. ‘If you shoot me, you risk killing a peer of the realm. Even if I live, you won’t be able to show your face in this country for years.’

(Hordak had spoken to Catra once of the great things she could accomplish. Of all she could become. Did it hurt to be reduced, yet again, to the simple facts of _thief_ and _orphan_? Of course it did. He’d been someone to her: a guardian, a mentor, someone to aspire to.)

‘You’re right,’ Glimmer said—

(The last, tiny vestiges of hope drained from Catra’s body—)

—and shot him.

The ball took him in the shoulder. Hordak dropped the sword and staggered backwards, and in the same instant Adora was rolling to the side, coming up on one knee with her sword in her hand—and then silence.

‘Unfortunately for you,’ Glimmer said and Catra only wished that, one day, she could experience as much satisfaction as filled Glimmer’s voice in that moment—‘I’m in the market for a good reason to visit France.’

And Catra did the only thing that made any sense: she began to laugh. Adora’s head whipped around at the sound. The relief on her face when she saw Catra was replaced by confusion as Catra collapsed into a chair, waves of hysterical laughter paralysing her as effectively as the fear had done moments before. She should—she should go to Adora, Adora was hurt, but there was Glimmer now, kneeling beside her, and suddenly she felt awkward, like an outsider in her own home. Glimmer would take care of Adora, wouldn’t she? That was fine. Everything was fine.

That was how the Duchess of Brightmoon found them.

‘ _Angella_.’

Catra had almost forgotten about Hordak. He was nestled against an overturned chair, his shoulder and sleeve wet with blood. She recognised the expression on his face: a man who was used to getting his own way, still convinced it would be so.

‘Control your daughter,’ he spat.

Brightmoon took her time surveying the situation. She was in uniform. The sword and pistol at her belt looked battered and entirely functional. Two soldiers flanked her, and through the open doors Catra could see more red-coats ascending the stairs.

The sight of all that officialdom made her nervous.

Presently Brightmoon said, ‘Excellent shot, Glimmer.’

Hordak spluttered. ‘The Prince Regent will hear of this!’

Brightmoon didn’t answer immediately. She made her way through the room, icy calm, and Catra began to understand how Glimmer had been able to stand her ground. ‘Yes, I think he will,’ Brightmoon said once she’d put herself between Hordak and her daughter. ‘I think he will hear all about you, Hordak. I think he will hear about the treason you plotted in Portugal, and the treason you are still plotting now.’

‘ _Slander_ ,’ Hordak said, voice raised. ‘Vilest slander!’

‘Did you think I would not notice,’ Brightmoon went on as if he had not spoken, ‘what was stolen? Did you think I cared so much about the Moonstone that I would be blinded by its loss? The loss of a piece of _jewellery_? My people are going to search this house, Hordak. They are going to find the plans you stole from me. I’m sure the Prince Regent would love to know what use a loyal subject had for the details of Bonaparte’s imprisonment.’

Hordak had gone quite pale. ‘She’s lying—’

‘Spare the protestations for your trial.’ Brightmoon cocked her head. ‘Tell me, did you _really_ think you were the first to try something like this? Conspiracies to free Bonaparte are cheaper than dirt. I’ve been quite busy since the end of the war.’

‘I had nothing to do with this.’ Hordak pointed at Catra with his uninjured hand. ‘It was _her_. She stole from you!’

‘Worry not. I know all about your accomplice.’ Brightmoon beckoned with one hand. ‘Netossa, make sure he doesn’t bleed out. Spinnerella’—and here she sighed, like someone faced with a necessary but distasteful task—‘arrest Catra.’

Before Catra could begin to process this latest reversal of her fortunes, Adora was on her feet. She made it to Catra’s side two paces before Spinnerella and interposed herself between them, sword raised. ‘ _No_.’

‘Adora,’ Brightmoon said sharply. ‘Do _not_ try me—’

‘ _No_.’ A second voice, a second body between Catra and the duchess—‘No,’ Glimmer repeated. ‘She knew nothing of Frightley’s treason. You can’t have her.’

And yet something was still wrong. Unbalanced. Catra stood, slowly, emerging from Adora’s shadow and stepping up to her side. She felt utterly drained, like a dishrag abandoned in the corner of a dusty kitchen. She made herself meet Hordak’s gaze across the room.

‘The library,’ Catra said. ‘The top row of the third shelf from the left.’ It may not have been _quite_ as satisfying as shooting him, but the look of shock on Hordak’s face was gratifying nonetheless. ‘There’s a hollowed-out copy of _The Wealth of Nations_.’ Her smile was small and crooked. ‘That’s the only hiding place he thinks I don’t know about. That’s where you’ll find your proof.’

*

The rest Catra would hear later: how the house had been searched from top to bottom; the proof of Hordak’s crimes found; magistrates summoned. Dawn would break before she left Hordak’s townhouse for the last time.

But that was later.

_(‘You should make yourself scarce,’ Glimmer said. ‘Mother’ll come round, but—out of sight, out of mind, you know?’_

_Catra hesitated. ‘My friends…’_

_Glimmer smiled. ‘Lady Scorpia is my friend, too. I’ll make sure they’re all right. You take care of Adora. Are we agreed?’_

_Catra didn’t need to be told twice.)_

She’d watched anxiously as one of Brightmoon’s soldiers bandaged Adora’s injuries. She’d felt a strange blend of giddiness and shyness as she’d taken Adora’s arm, gently, and led her to a small parlour, out of everyone’s way.

The story came out. How Adora had realised Glimmer was missing; how Brightmoon had insisted they wait for reinforcements; how Adora had ignored her and gone to confront Hordak alone.

When she was done Catra got up and poured them both a glass of scotch. ‘I can’t believe you let him talk you into a duel,’ she said once she’d curled up on the other end of the couch again.

Adora took a sip and grimaced. ‘I can’t believe I _lost_.’

‘Guess I’m no longer the only person to have beaten you in a duel,’ Catra said, then froze. ‘I mean—I’m sorry for… for that. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. And I’m sorry I took your sword. That was petty.’

‘It’s all right,’ Adora murmured. ‘It was my fault, too. I’m sorry I didn’t take your feelings more seriously.’ She paused. ‘Besides, I let you win.’

Catra kicked her, gently. ‘You did _not_.’

‘Whatever makes you feel better…’

Memories: Adora, on her back, Catra’s claws beneath her chin superimposed with Hordak’s sword. Catra dug those same claws into the upholstery. ‘Just, don’t do that again.’

‘Do what? Lose?’

‘Be—be _vulnerable_.’ Catra growled and wiped tears away before they could fully form. ‘Do you have any idea how I felt when I—when you—when I walked into the dining room?’

Adora glanced away. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Yeah, I think I do.’ And then, suddenly, as if she’d been holding the words in for too long: ‘Miss Weaver lied to us, you know.’

Catra twitched her ears. ‘I know.’

‘I’m sorry, Catra, I’m so sorry, when I came back and you weren’t there—’

‘Stop.’

Adora blinked. ‘What?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about the details.’ Catra sidled over, close enough to reach out and touch her. ‘I don’t want to think about losing you. Not now.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve had enough ups and downs in the last twenty-four hours. Right now I’m _happy_. I want to think about _having_ you.’

‘Come here, then,’ Adora said.

It was as if Catra had been waiting for just such an invitation. She surged across the gap between them, wrapping her arms around Adora, her tail curling around Adora’s wrist. That wasn’t enough. The bottom few buttons of Adora’s shirt were undone where the bandages had been applied, and Catra ran her hand underneath and up Adora’s side. The sensation of smooth, warm skin brought it all home: she was there, Adora was there, and she’d be _damned_ if she let anyone take her away again.

She paused when she got to the scars on Adora’s back. ‘I’m sorry about these.’

‘Don’t be,’ Adora said, her fingers massaging gentle circles on the back of Catra’s head. ‘You were just doing what I asked you to do. And I’ve had worse from duels.’

‘But I—’

Adora shushed her. ‘I forgive you,’ she whispered. ‘And I don’t want to think about losing you, either.’

Catra let out a slow, even breath. ‘Okay,’ she said. She scooted back a little, stretched, and lay her head down in Adora’s lap. Adora’s fingers moved to her ears and she made a little noise of contentment.

‘I’d almost forgotten how cute you could be,’ Adora said, grinning down at her. Contentment turned to irritation, which only made Adora laugh. ‘All right, all right, I won’t tell anyone. But I like it, you know. I like seeing you like this.’

Catra could live with that. She made herself even more comfortable and let the peaceful minutes tick by. There was something she had to address, though, and just as she was beginning to consider how best to broach the subject, Adora did it for her.

‘I need to tell you something important,’ she said, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

Catra sat up, made a space between them for Adora’s words to occupy. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Catra, I think—’ Adora paused a second, her brow furrowing the way it did when she was marshalling her thoughts. ‘I think I’m in love with you.’

It was obvious to Catra what Adora expected to come next: shocked, reverent silence; a stuttered acknowledgement, perhaps; most certainly surprise. Instead, she smirked. ‘God help you.’

Adora groaned and hid her face in her hands. ‘I’m _serious_ , Catra, I’m trying to—trying to be honest, okay?’

‘I know that.’ Catra stretched one foot out until it was pressing gently into Adora’s side. ‘But I’m not _blind_. I lived through the same year you did. This isn’t exactly a surprise.’

‘Oh. It—isn’t?’

Catra snorted. ‘You _literally_ threw yourself at me.’

‘That was—it could have just been lust—’

‘ _Christ_ , Adora,’ Catra said, grinning.

Adora looked up. Her face was a delightful shade of red, but even so Catra thought she was going to press the issue. Instead she sighed and said, ‘All right. Then… what?’

That was an excellent question. Catra gave it some thought. Much as she might have liked to curl up against Adora and forget all about the past, she couldn’t. There was pain there, and nothing to be gained from covering it up and letting it fester. ‘Do you think you can be honest with yourself some more?’

‘Maybe. Yes. Glimmer keeps insisting that’s a good idea.’

Catra took a deep, uneven breath. She tried to keep all trace of bitterness and pleading out of her voice, but if some seeped through—well, she figured Adora would understand. ‘I need you to tell me what you want now. No “but I can’t”. No _fucking_ society. Just—just you. Can you do that for me?’

‘I think so.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘I want _you_.’ Adora met Catra’s gaze, then looked away, as if surprised to find her staring back. ‘I—I want you in my life for as long as you’ll have me.’

‘But?’

‘But I _don’t_ want to sacrifice everything _else_ in my life for you.’ This time Adora held her gaze. ‘Because I would. You know? I would, but… it would sour things. We’re always told that sacrifice is the proof of love, but has that ever sounded right to you?’

Catra shivered. She’d had enough sacrifice in her life to last her several decades. ‘I used to think that it would always be enough if we just had each other. I was willing to throw everything else away.’ She glanced down and tried to lose herself in the patterning of the couch. ‘But it’s not enough, is it?’

Adora shook her head. ‘I can’t put my whole life, my happiness, all on you. It wouldn’t be fair. It’s not a burden meant for one person.’

Catra looked up. Adora’s expression was so intent, so sincere, it made the words come more easily. ‘Glimmer means a lot to you.’

‘Yes.’

The simplest possible answer. Catra could have pushed for more details, could have demanded to know which of them ranked first in Adora’s affections—but that would be demanding an answer that didn’t exist. It simply wasn’t how Adora thought.

‘And I don’t know how—I mean, it’s not the same, but I don’t know, we’ll have to—’ Adora’s words were coming in such a rush Catra could barely tell what order they were supposed to go in. ‘What I’m trying to say is, I don’t have all the answers. I don’t know how Glimmer feels, I don’t know where we’re going to go from here or…’ She shrugged. ‘All I know is that my life feels _open_ now, in a way it hasn’t for a while. I want to take advantage of that.’

It was odd, realising Adora was still worried that this might slip through her fingers, that Catra might prove intractable at the last. But Catra had already made up her mind. She’d been through the crucible, down in the dark of the cellar, and emerged intact and determined to be happy. ‘That might be easier than you think.’

‘I—what?’

‘You want me, but you don’t want to give Glimmer up to be with me. Is that more or less it?’

Adora opened her mouth, closed it again, frowned. ‘More or less.’

‘And I’m saying that might be easier than you think.’

‘Catra, what are you—’

‘You’ll see,’ Catra said with exaggerated casualness. ‘You might want to brush up on your French, though. We can work the details out later.’

‘I swear to God, Catra, tell me—’

Catra straddled her. That shut Adora up. ‘ _Later_ ,’ she said. ‘Right now I’m too busy enjoying the fact that there’s going to _be_ a later. I don’t want to ruin it by thinking too hard.’

Adora squirmed beneath her. There was a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, though, and Catra waited patiently for her to accept the inevitable. ‘Fine. But promise me we really will talk about it.’

‘Promise.’ Catra grinned. ‘For now, though, I want you to keep going. What _else_ do you want?’ On the off chance that Adora did not catch her meaning, Catra pushed her gently against the back of the couch, mindful of her bandages, and pressed a kiss to her neck.

Adora blushed. ‘You're enjoying this.’

‘Yes,’ Catra said—and the words that followed weren’t planned, but they had to be said, had to be admitted. ‘I spent two years waiting for you to come back to me, then trying to forget you, then hoping against hope—’ She bared her teeth. ‘ _Yes_ , I'm enjoying this. I deserve to enjoy it.’

‘You do,’ Adora murmured. She raised a hand to Catra’s cheek and smiled. Then she took a deep breath. ‘And you deserve to know that I want you to—to finish what you started. At the masquerade ball.’

The words were warming in more ways than one. ‘You'll have to refresh my memory,’ Catra said, languid, because _damn_ if she wasn’t determined to draw every last blush of colour forth on Adora's cheeks.

Embarrassed she might have been, but Adora’s reply came without hesitation. ‘I want you to take me and shatter my _goddamn innocence_ into a thousand pieces.’

Catra let herself bask for a moment. Then she retreated a little, taking the bulk of her weight off Adora. ‘ _Miss_ A _do_ ra,’ she said in her best scandalised tone. ‘Are you propositioning me? Here? _Now?_ ’

For a moment Adora looked confused. Then she groaned. ‘Oh my _God_.’

‘Language.’

‘You—are— _so_ —infuriating.’

‘Mmm. Isn’t that what you love about me?’

Adora closed her eyes. ‘You were right.’

‘About what?’

‘ _God_ help me.’

Catra's smile threatened to take over her entire face. Before that could happen, she leaned in and said, very quietly, ‘I love you, too.’

She’d been expecting it from the moment they’d found themselves alone, and yet she still found herself taken by surprise when Adora kissed her. It was as if some fundamental part of her could not believe that she was really here, that Adora really was underneath her, that this was the start of something and not a stolen intermission.

Adora did not let her disbelieve. Her hands fisted in Catra’s hair, pulling her closer, and Catra sighed into the kiss. Her fingers found their way between them—Adora’s shirt was already half undone, did it _really_ matter if she unbuttoned it fully, if she let her hands explore the warmth of Adora’s muscled back? Certainly Adora did not care, not if the way she shrugged out of the shirt and let it fall halfway down her arms was any indication—

Catra pulled back, breathing hard. Her face was as flushed as Adora’s now, she was sure, and her whole body felt warm and dry, like kindling about to erupt. ‘Are you _sure_ you’re not propositioning me?’

Adora’s fingers were like anchors on her skin. ‘Kiss me again and find out,’ she said, her voice hoarse with desire.

Catra bit back a moan and bent to do just that—

The door swung open. She froze in place.

‘I thought Glimmer was exaggerating,’ the Duchess of Brightmoon said from the doorway, and the only saving grace was that she sounded more amused than angry. ‘But I see you two really _can’t_ be trusted on your own.’

Adora jerked away from Catra. ‘Your Grace! This isn’t what it—’

For a moment, Catra felt nothing. That was it, then. She couldn’t win—Adora was too far gone. There was no more anger, no more despair, no more disappointment; just a faint sense of disbelief and—

‘No,’ Adora said, and Catra’s line of thought came crashing to an end. ‘That's wrong.’

She gripped Catra by the collar of her shirt, pulled her close, and kissed her with such total self-assurance that it didn’t even occur to Catra to protest.

‘This,’ Adora whispered when they had separated again, ‘is _exactly_ what it looks like.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me tell you: those were the easiest 6000 words I've ever written. I love basically everything about this chapter; I hope you guys like it too. :3
> 
> A few notes: it was very important I get this chapter out before season two came along and gave Hordak an actual character. :p that being accomplished, I might hold off on the epilogue - I'm pretty sure I /could/ get it done before tomorrow evening, but I'd rather let y'all rest, enjoy season two, and I'll post it closer to the end of the weekend. :)
> 
> I also have an admission to make. this chapter features the only deliberate anachronism in the whole fic. I don't believe a mechanical dumbwaiter is realistic in an 1810s townhouse. but I liked that part too much to cut it, so let's just say mumble mumble Entrapta mumble mumble and leave it at that. :D (and just to clarify: I'm confident there have been /dozens/ of accidental anachronisms. and to clarify even further, yes, I know I'm the only person who cares :p)
> 
> I'll have more to say when the fic is officially complete, but since the main story ends here, I just want to thank you all so much for all the support over the last couple of months. Writing this fic has been an incredibly positive experience and you all rock <3
> 
> see you on the other side - and, as always, do let me know what you thought! :D


	17. Venice—January 1818

Glimmer watched the sun set on an impossible city.

The Venetian Lagoon gave way to city streets like an act of alchemy, water and wet stone united in the reflected glory of the sun. Even having walked those streets, it was sometimes difficult to comprehend that Venice was more than a mirage, drawing the unwary in with dreams of floating palaces.

‘This is going to be a cemetery, you know.’

Adora’s voice startled her out of her reverie. They were on the island of San Michele, a few hundred yards from the northern edge of Venice itself. The interior of the city, byzantine with thoroughfares on street and bridge and water, all crossing and re-crossing like the web of an inebriated spider, threw Glimmer off at times. It was a city of secrets. She hadn’t yet earned its trust, hadn’t yet learnt those secrets.

From across the water, though—there she could begin to grasp the city as a single living entity.

‘That makes sense,’ she said.

‘Yeah. You’d want to bury your dead somewhere isolated. It’s good for hygiene.’

Glimmer snorted. ‘I was going to say it’s a beautiful place. It wouldn’t be so bad spending eternity here, would it? With that view?’

‘Functional _and_ beautiful.’

Glimmer glanced at Adora out of the corner of her eye. The other girl was looking out over the water, too, a thin sheen of sweat covering her exposed arms—Adora had insisted they row themselves all the way to Murano and back, which task had proven somewhat beyond her capabilities. Glimmer didn’t mind. It was, after all, a lovely place to take a break.

‘Speaking of.’ Adora cleared her throat. ‘I have something for you.’

Glimmer tried to act surprised, but Adora hadn’t exactly been subtle. The island of Murano was famed the world over for its glass, and they’d spent the whole morning wandering from one workshop to another. Anything could be had on Murano that was made of glass, as could any number of items that typically weren’t, clocks and candelabra and other things, things that exchanged hands discreetly in back rooms.

After they were done Adora had insisted Glimmer linger over her lunch while she ventured back out into the fray. And so: ‘Is it made of glass?’

‘Very funny,’ Adora said, producing a small package wrapped in delicate off-white paper. ‘It’s just—it made me think of you,’ she added, suddenly self-conscious. ‘And I wanted to… Anyway. Here. Open it.’

Glimmer took her time unwrapping it. The small, round plate that emerged was unlike the riotous colours of most of the things she’d seen that day. It was black, and in the middle a stylised crescent moon was inlaid like a mosaic in half a dozen shades of pink, the delicate patterns giving the impression of spun sugar.

‘Adora, it’s—’ Glimmer didn’t have to feign her surprise. When one saw a huge quantity of craftsmanship in a single day, no matter how skilful, it inevitably began to seem commonplace—but it was as if Adora had found the one piece on the island that was still capable of speaking to her. ‘It’s gorgeous.’ She kissed Adora’s cheek. ‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, good,’ Adora said, a little giddy. ‘I was worried you’d think it’s silly, because, you know, you could afford to buy whatever you wanted there, but that’s true of basically _any_ gift I give you, and—’

This time she kissed Adora’s lips, lightly, stilling her words before they tumbled any further out of control. ‘Did you get something for Catra?’

For some reason, Adora turned bright red. ‘N-no, nothing for Catra.’

Glimmer raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really.’

‘It’s just you’ve been so careful to treat us equally…’

Adora groaned. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘Well…’ Glimmer waved a hand apologetically. ‘Yes. You know, I don’t think either of us cares who gets the bigger gift.’

Adora kicked a loose stone into the lagoon. ‘To tell the truth, I think Catra thinks she’s won,’ she said after the ripples of its passing had dissipated.

‘Does she realise it’s not a competition?’

‘Try telling _her_ that.’

Glimmer laughed. ‘Tell me, then. Why does she think she’s won?’

The colour was back in Adora’s cheeks. ‘Because I spend every night in her bed,’ she mumbled.

Glimmer rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. I should have guessed.’ She glanced at Adora, who was staring resolutely forward. No time like the present, was there? ‘Can I ask an indelicate question?’

‘Will it stop you if I say no?’

An impish grin. ‘Probably not.’

Adora sighed dramatically. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Why don’t you worry about that? You fret about the little things, but you spend your nights with her.’

‘Oh! I thought—I mean—do you want to… ?’ Adora was looking everywhere but at Glimmer. ‘I just thought,’ she went on, speaking very quickly, ‘I spend all my _mornings_ with you, you know, cause she’s always asleep anyway, and I didn’t think you wanted, you know, that—’

It was tempting to let her go on, but Glimmer wasn’t _quite_ as heartless as Catra when it came to letting Adora embarrass herself. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said, laying a reassuring hand on Adora’s shoulder. ‘The opposite, actually. I think being fair isn’t about treating people the _same_ , it’s about showing the same respect for what they _want_. I don’t mind if Catra thinks she’s winning, because _I’m_ happy. And I think you understand that, really, in the ways that matter.’ She shuffled over and replaced her hand with her head. ‘That’s why it’s amusing watching you overthink the things that _don’t_ matter so much.’

Adora wrapped an arm around her. That was nice—there was a breeze over the open water, and the chill was starting to settle in even through the wool of her coat. ‘I’m sorry,’ Adora muttered. ‘I guess I’m still half expecting you to…’

‘Decide we hate each other and fight a duel for the right to keep you?’

Adora said, ‘Er.’

Glimmer snorted. ‘I promise I’ll let you know before it gets anywhere near that point.’

From her vantage on Adora’s shoulder, Glimmer could see the edges of her embarrassed smile. ‘I’ll try to keep that in mind.’

Glimmer hummed agreement. ‘While I have license to be indelicate,’ she added, and she could all but feel Adora brace herself. ‘What’s it like?’

‘Um.’ Adora let out a breath. ‘It’s—nice.’

‘Nice?’ Glimmer sat up, the better to waggle her eyebrows at Adora.

‘It’s… it’s like taking all the tension and, and _fire_ between us, and turning it into something we both, um… enjoy.’ Adora peeked out at her from behind her hands. ‘And afterwards it’s… peaceful.’

Glimmer bumped her shoulder affectionately. ‘I’m happy for you.’

‘That’s good, because I’m _mortified_.’

Glimmer was proud of her, too. She remembered a time Adora had ceased functioning when presented with the merest insinuation there might, someday, be something between her and Catra. _Mortified_ was a distinct improvement.

Still. It wouldn’t do to let Adora rest on her laurels. Which was why she said, ‘In that case I probably shouldn’t mention that I can hear you sometimes.’

It was convenient, Glimmer reflected as Adora spluttered through a response, that she’d never found that sort of thing a priority herself. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t appreciate the way Adora’s muscles flexed as she worked the oars back to Venice proper, or that she didn’t harbour vague curiosities.

But she had a long life ahead of her. One day, perhaps, she might want to share Adora’s bed—or perhaps not. That wasn’t the important thing. The important thing was that she knew what she wanted _now_ : she wanted those moments together, watching the sun eclipsed by the spires of a distant city; she wanted the mornings when Adora emerged from the room she shared with Catra, bleary-eyed and yawning, and ensconced herself by Glimmer’s side over a cup of tea.

And much as it pained her to admit—

When they arrived at La Fenice to find Bow and Catra waiting for them, the former boiling over with details of the opera they were about to see (romance; tragedy; pirates; mistaken identity; the usual, in other words), the latter leaning casually against a pillar, her tail toying with the tails of her coat; when Adora kissed Catra hello, right there on the steps of the opera house, and afterwards Catra smiled triumphantly over Adora’s shoulder—

Glimmer winked at her and watched triumph turn to confusion.

Much as it pained her to admit, she wanted those moments, too.

It was a little unusual, perhaps.

But it worked.

*

Adora woke up in the middle of the night to find Catra gone.

That was the sort of thing that might have caused some anxiety, but Adora found her old instincts reasserting themselves. Catra had never had much respect for night as a time for sleeping. Still. Something drew her out, when other nights she might have rolled over and gone back to sleep.

She sat up, wrapped her night-gown tighter around herself. The motion dislodged something from the bed, startling her with a dull thud, but it was only the now-empty box she’d picked up on Murano. The room was cold. Colder than it should have been, even in the middle of January. It took a few seconds of her eyes adjusting to the dark before she realised why.

The palazzo Glimmer was renting fronted onto a narrower canal, the sort of canal that could barely be seen from dry land. It wasn’t like the buildings on the Grand Canal, with their balconies as public as a theatre stage. It was smaller, more private. There were balconies nonetheless, however, and the door onto theirs was wide open.

Adora could tell by the way Catra’s closer ear twitched that she’d been heard the moment she stepped onto the balcony, yet Catra remained where she was. In the darkness she looked like a statue, perched impossibly on the stone railing with the balance that had made short work of the rooftops of London. Her tail was wrapped around herself.

More private or not, Adora wasn’t sure _she_ would dare be out in the open in nothing but the shirt she’d worn the day before. ‘You know, if you’re cold, you can button your shirt up.’

Catra’s tail stretched out towards Adora. ‘You should go back. I’ll be along.’ In months previous, the words would have been tinged with bitterness. Now they were thoughtful.

Adora leaned on the railing next to her, back to the water. Catra didn’t look at her—her gaze was fixed on the canal—but that was okay. ‘I’ll go if you want me to. But I don’t mind the cold.’ Catra shrugged. The motion made her shirt slip off one shoulder. Adora reached out and tugged it up again. ‘Is something on your mind?’

‘Lots of things,’ Catra said.

Adora sighed. ‘All right, is something _specific_ on your mind that you’d like to talk about?’

‘Maybe.’ Catra’s lips quirked.

‘Would you like to talk around it for a bit until I can guess what’s bothering you?’

Catra snorted. ‘See, this is why I like you.’

It was difficult not to smile. ‘I know.’

They were silent for a time. Adora found the cold genuinely did not bother her: she felt it, yes, but in that moment it was peaceful. In the distance she could hear vague noises, the dampened sounds of a city at night, but in the space between them there was nothing but the echo of water on stone.

Presently Catra said, ‘this is more than friendship. More than love. You know that, right? We belong to each other.’

‘I know,’ Adora said quietly.

‘I’ve never doubted that.’

‘I know.’

‘But—I guess—recently I’ve been wondering what that _means_. What the shape of it is.’

Adora toyed with Catra’s tail, winding it between the fingers of her right hand. It was so normal, so comfortable, she never even thought about it anymore. How odd that a tail would seem unusual to most people. ‘If you want to ask me about her, you can just ask.’

‘Have you slept with her?’ Catra said immediately, as if she’d been waiting for the invitation.

Adora wanted to laugh. Why was that _always_ the first question? ‘You'd know if I had.’

‘Will you?’

Adora paused. She thought of the scratches Catra left on her back most nights and tried to imagine Glimmer in Catra’s place. The image didn't mesh. She could imagine Glimmer tracing those scratches, though, could imagine the kind of comment she might make—which meant she could imagine herself naked in Glimmer’s company—

Adora pruned the hypotheticals threatening to take over her mind. ‘I don't know,’ she said simply. ‘I don't think that's what she wants from me, though.’

‘What do you want from her?’

‘I want—’ Adora made a frustrated noise. It had been so easy to function on instinct. Putting things into words was harder—but instinct hardly sufficed to mediate between two people, let alone three. ‘It's like this. Being with you is... intoxicating. Overwhelming. Even in the quiet moments. Even just _looking_ at you feels like an active process sometimes, like something I have to devote my attention to.’

Catra smirked. ‘Flatterer.’

Adora ran a hand through Catra's hair. It was more unkempt than she was used to, but the way Catra sighed and leaned into her, unguarded and relaxed, made it smoothest silk. ‘You _are_ gorgeous,’ Adora murmured. (And even after weeks of sleeping together, how strange to speak what had spent so long unspoken—but it was _true,_ and Adora no longer had any reason to hide it.) ‘But that's not what I meant. For so long you were the only truly _good_ thing in my life, and it was so easy to lose myself in you. You’d make me forget the rest of the world existed, and that's... well, it's not _always_ a good thing.’ Adora made a face. ‘How big a fool am I making of myself right now?’

‘Pretty big,’ Catra said, but she sounded distracted, as if her heart wasn’t quite in the teasing. ‘I don't want you to lose yourself. In me or anywhere else.’

‘There, see? _That's_ what I need from Glimmer.’

‘A map?’

Adora snorted. ‘If you like. She makes me feel... balanced, that’s all. I could never have acknowledged how I felt about you if it hadn’t been for her.’

‘Mmm. You need her because I'm too much for you to handle alone.’

‘That is _not_ what I meant.’

‘If you say so.’ Catra waggled her eyebrows. Adora briefly considered pushing her off the balcony. ‘Do I have to _like_ her?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘I like getting on her nerves. Does that count?’

Surprise made Adora laugh, loud and awkward in the night. ‘It’s a start.’ She poked one of Catra’s feet. ‘You know, I didn’t expect this from you. You’re supposed to be the smug, confident one.’

‘Oh, well, obviously.’ Catra waved a hand dismissively. ‘I just want to make sure I stay in front.’

‘Uh-huh.’

Catra grinned at her. ‘But really. I just—I expected it to be harder, I guess. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.’

Adora said, ‘What can I do to reassure you?’

Catra’s voice when she finally answered was neither smug nor confident. ‘Tell me you’re mine. You—you don’t need to _just_ be mine. But I…’ A shadow passed across her face. ‘I need to hear it sometimes.’

‘I’m yours,’ Adora said without hesitation. ‘And no one’s trying to take me away from you. Not anymore. You don’t have to worry about losing to Glimmer. She’s not even playing the same game. I know it’s not quite what you expected—I know it’s not what _I_ expected, but, Catra, you make me _happy_. I’m never going to forget that first night in Paris.’

Catra smirked. ‘What about Turin?’

‘I’m never going to forget that, either,’ Adora said, trying to hide her blush. ‘And I’m never going to forget that you didn’t give up on me. Let the other shoe drop, if it wants to. We’ll get through it. I love you, Catra, and I’m not going to let you go, not without one _hell_ of a fight.’

Catra’s tail tightened around her wrist. Adora glanced up.

The expression on Catra’s face was one of her rarest: open, vulnerable, the faintest hint of colour rising in her cheeks. Adora offered her hand. Catra took it and hopped off the railing, something unspoken passing between them as they held each other, close and quiet, through the steps of an unheard waltz.

‘Thank you,’ Catra whispered. The words were as fervent as her kiss a moment later was gentle, almost shy. It was unlike her, but it fit the occasion.

‘You’re welcome.’ Adora smiled against Catra’s lips. ‘ _Now_ I’m cold, though, and there’s an empty bed in there crying out for you to warm me up.’

Catra’s smile was wide and pointy and fearless.

*

The next morning Catra woke before Adora for the first time in weeks.

She got out of bed, thankful for the thick carpet muffling her footsteps, and dressed in silence. It was only a precaution—she knew, somehow, that Adora was sleeping soundly, that it would be at least an hour yet before she rose, happy and rested. Still. No need to worry her. Catra unfolded the writing desk, scribbled a quick note, and tucked it between the pillow and Adora’s arm.

She closed the door carefully behind her on her way out. Then she set out in search of breakfast and conversation.

She found Glimmer three bridges away, sitting outside a café in a tiny square of the sort that Venice was full of. Without waiting for an invitation, she pulled up a chair and sat down. The sun, she noted with satisfaction, was behind her, and Glimmer had to squint as she looked up.

‘Where’s Adora?’

Catra leaned back with studied insouciance. ‘Sleeping me off.’

Glimmer snorted. ‘Are you sure you’re being thorough enough? I think you might have missed a few shreds of her virtue.’

‘Careful,’ Catra drawled. ‘I might think you’re jealous.’

She didn’t really mean it, of course, and she was pretty sure Glimmer knew that, too. But she hadn’t been lying to Adora. Winding Glimmer up was _fun_.

‘Not unless you’re planning on making a habit of hijacking my mornings.’

‘Too much effort. This is a one-off.’

‘I’m touched,’ Glimmer said in a tone that suggested the opposite, just as a server materialised by her shoulder. Glimmer said something in flawless Italian and the man disappeared again. ‘I hope you like coffee,’ she added.

‘You really are the perfect gentlewoman,’ Catra said, making sure her grin was only half-mocking.

Glimmer sighed, but it was an exaggerated sound. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

‘I had a letter from Scorpia the other day,’ Catra answered promptly. ‘She’s in Florence with Entrapta. Can I invite them to stay?’

Glimmer blinked. ‘Yes, of course you can,’ she said, in a normal sort of tone. ‘Sorry, I thought—’

‘I was just here to be annoying?’

‘Exactly.’

The server returned with two tiny cups. Catra cradled hers between her hands. The light was pretty this time of day, she reflected. Perhaps mornings weren’t so bad.

‘You know,’ Glimmer said eventually, ‘you didn’t have to ask. I know it’s my money—’

‘Your mother’s money.’

‘My _mother’s_ money renting the palazzo, but there’s plenty of space. I don’t want you to feel…’ Glimmer trailed off, frowned minutely. ‘Constrained.’

‘Oh, I don’t,’ Catra said. ‘I just thought I’d try being polite for once.’

Glimmer regarded her dubiously. ‘Is that really the only reason you came out here?’

Catra leaned forward. ‘No,’ she said. ‘One other thing. Some day down the line, things aren’t going to be as easy as they are now. We’re going to disagree about something. We’re going to rub up against each other the wrong way. And when that happens, I trust Adora. I trust that she can work things out with you, and I _know_ that she can work things out with me. But.’ Catra raised a finger. ‘I _don’t_ trust that _you_ can work things out with me.’

‘Thanks,’ Glimmer said drily.

‘Or that I can work things out with you,’ Catra went on. ‘So let’s make a deal, right now. I don’t know that we’re ever going to truly like each other—’

‘I don’t know,’ Glimmer said, half-smiling. ‘I liked you quite a bit when you got that cellar door open.’

For some reason that brought Catra up short. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘You weren’t so bad yourself.’ She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. ‘Have I ever thanked you… ?’

‘You haven’t,’ Glimmer said, ‘but that’s fine. Adora does it for you.’

Catra cleared her throat. That didn’t seem fair. ‘Well, thank you, regardless.’

‘You’re welcome. You were going to say?’

‘Right. Whether or not we like each other, I want to agree that we’re not going to ruin this for all of us. If there’s a problem, we’re going to work it out before it becomes too big. Deal?’

Glimmer studied her, as if trying to work out if she was being teased. ‘Deal,’ she said eventually.

‘Good, then. Good.’ Catra felt suddenly awkward. ‘What happens now?’

‘Now we drink our coffee. Then we can make plans to welcome your friends to Venice. After that’—Glimmer spread her arms wide—‘what’s the phrase? The world is our oyster.’

‘Adora and I had a list,’ Catra said, unsure even as she said it why she was volunteering this information. ‘When we were young. Of places we wanted to see.’

‘Did you?’ Glimmer grinned, as if imagining the two of them together, young and naïve and full of possibilities, brought her joy. ‘Where was next on the list?’

‘Lisbon,’ Catra said. Then she frowned. ‘Or Morocco. I can’t remember exactly.’

‘Well, then.’ Glimmer reached into her pocket and drew out a shiny silver coin. She offered it to Catra palm up. ‘Do you want to flip a coin?’

Catra flipped the coin. It hung in the air for a moment, shining with not just two but a hundred different possibilities, a thousand different paths folding and unfolding before her—

All of them good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that.
> 
> It was originally going to be Paris, but I wrote some of the most crucial scenes of this fic in a hotel room in Venice, and it seemed fitting to skip ahead a little further. Plus this way, if I ever want to revisit this story, I have a ready-made gap to fill. :D
> 
> I wrote this story at about one third NaNo pace, and that was /with/ some serious interference from my personal life. I live on a different continent than when I started writing. It has, quite honestly, been comforting having this constant project in my life while everything else was changing, so one last time: I want to thank you all so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, and just generally being incredibly supportive. Y'all are why I write. Thank you. <3
> 
> I'm going to take a bit of a break now. But damn if I didn't have some emotional whiplash writing these three being happy the day after watching season two - so who knows how long I'll last before the urge to Fix Everything comes back. Until then - let me know what you thought, and I'll see you all around <3
> 
> (And if you like, I'm fuhadeza on both Twitter and tumblr :D)


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